


A Little Help from my Friends

by Ttime42



Series: Help from my Friends AU [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - BDSM, BDSM, Blood, Bondage, Bottom John, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Case Fic, Consensual, Cyber stalking, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Play, Dubious Consent, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Happy Ending, Hospitalization, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, John's massive cock, Johnlock Roulette, Knives, Light BDSM, M/M, Masturbation, Military Kink, Minor Original Character(s), Original Character(s), Paddling, Past Drug Use, Public Display of Affection, Punishment, Rope Bondage, Series Spoilers, Spanking, Stalking, Sweet, Switch John, Teacher/Student Roleplay, Top John Watson, Top Sherlock, Verbal Abuse, Violence, mike stamford/OFC - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-03-17 20:11:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 140,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3542336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ttime42/pseuds/Ttime42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where everyone identifies as either a dominant or a submissive, Sherlock is having a rough time moving on from a bad relationship and has sworn off doms forever. John has recently returned to London from war and has a fortuitous run in with an old friend in a park. Sherlock and John's lives are changed forever because of that chance meeting, and they'll both find their way through life with a little help from their friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Curious Incident of the Sub in the Nighttime

John Watson stumped along the busy pavement on a damp, cloudy morning in London. Passersby streamed around him on either side, occasionally muttering “sorry” and “excuse me” as they jostled him, trying not to get bags or leashes or briefcases caught on his cane. John had given up verbally accepting their excuses and he focused on taking one slow step after another, setting the cane down on the concrete, stepping, and lifting it again. Wash, rinse, repeat. Flashes of the war interrupted his daily thoughts. Not as badly as they did at night, but the roar of a bus or the shouting of pedestrians was enough to make the terrible memories of blood and death and violence froth to the surface. He’d force them back under and keep walking.

It did get easier. His therapist _was_ helping. A little. Sort of.

He turned onto a less busy street and headed for the park. People were going to work and he didn’t want to get in anyone’s way. Not like he had a job to go to. He walked past some benches that were along the side of the path, so intent on keeping balance that he didn’t notice the person sitting on one of them.

“John?” He heard behind him. He stopped, then frowned as a man he didn’t know bustled up to him.

“Mike Stamford.” The man said to his confused face. “We went to Bart’s together—I know.” He glanced over himself. “I got fat.”

“Mike.” John extended his hand to shake, recognition bouncing through his brain. “Yes, sorry, hello.” _Well that was embarrassing._

“What are you doing in London? I thought you were off getting shot at somewhere. What happened?”

John blinked and looked down at his cane. “I got shot.”

There was a slight awkward pause.

“So what are you doing now? You've got some pretty young thing waiting for you at your flat?" Mike and John started walking again. Mike looked like he was on his way to work, if his suit and tie were any indication, but he didn’t seem to be in any hurry.

"No." John said, flexing his left hand. "There's no one." He wasn't ready. Yet.

They got coffees and sat on another bench. John glanced at the slim brushed silver chain around Mike's neck. Was that a _collar?_ "You got a dom?"

"What? Oh‒yeah! I forgot, her and I hadn't met before you left. Yeah," he was smiling stupidly, playing with the thin collar. "I went and got myself caught."

"What's her name?"

"Betsy. Betsy Hannigan. Hey you should come over tonight. We have another friend stopping by. My Bets is making dinner‒she's a chef." He added, patting his belly.

"Yeah okay." John sipped his brew. It would be fun to catch up with Mike and meet his dom. It would help him get out of his head and make him feel more normal in any case.

^^^^

"I'm glad you said yes, John." Mike said as they went up the stairs to his flat later that evening. "I always regretted losing touch with you.”

“Really?” John said, startled. “Why?”

“Because….because you’re just a stand-up bloke.” Mike shrugged. “Always liked you.”

“Oh.” A sort of pleasing warmth lit his diaphragm. “Thank you.”

“You never know when you’ll need a good doctor around!” Mike cheerily. "Oh! Uh, that other person I mentioned? That's going to be here tonight?"

"Yeah?"

"He's a good guy." Mike assured him as they walked. "He really is, but just…don't get offended, yeah?"

"About what?" John was intrigued now.

"You'll see. He's not so great in social situations, touch of Asperger’s or something, I don’t really know but I think he'll like you. Well, as much as he _can_ like someone else…"

They rounded a bend in the stairs and continued climbing. "He does this thing where he looks at you and can know your life story‒I don't know how he does it, but head's up. Don't let it freak you out. Sorry about all the stairs, mate. Lift's out of order."

John waved it off and Mike soldiered on up the steps. He really wanted this to work. Sherlock needed a healthy support group, and he wasn’t kidding when he said John was one of the most stand-up men he’d ever known. "He's not terribly social." Mike rambled. "He doesn't get out much but he likes my Betsy's cooking even if he never says so and he takes a while to warm up to new people."

Behind Mike, John rolled his eyes. He partly wanted him to shut up and also was getting more and more curious about this guy. He sounded…interesting.

They pushed into a flat and Mike tossed down his bag before taking John's coat and hanging it up. The flat was cozy and homey and smelled of savory meats and roasting vegetables and butter. John's stomach grumbled and he eagerly followed Mike into the kitchen.

"Hi, Bets."

The cook, a ginger-haired woman with a bright face and warm eyes, turned and kissed him on the lips. "Well Mike Stamford, look at you all handsome in your suit and tie." She winked at him and turned back to pan of sizzling stir-fried vegetables. She appeared to be essentially the female version of Stamford in both build and demeanor and John got the impression she probably loved to spoil her sub and his mates with food. He liked her instantly. A ring on her little finger echoed the chain pattern of Mike's collar and John figured they must be pretty serious.

"Ah, er, Betsy," Mike’s face was flushed from the praise. "This is John Watson."

"John!" She said warmly. "Good to meet you! Mike's mentioned a few friends from his glory days before we met and I wondered if I'd ever lay eyes on any of them." She glanced at his fingers and throat as she turned back to the stove, checking to see if he was dom or sub. As John wore no jewelry, he knew she wouldn’t be able to tell. "Supper'll just be a few." She said. "Want something to drink? Mike will get it for you."

"Bitter?" Mike asked, opening the fridge.

"Sure." John took the offered beer. “Betsy, do you need help?”

“No, not at all! Go talk with Mike.” She shooed them both into the other room and it was then that John saw the tall, lanky brunette seated at the laid dining table, texting on his phone.

Mike spoke to him. "This is an old colleague of mine, John Watson. John, Sherlock Holmes."

John extended his hand with a smile. Sherlock finished with his phone and looked up at him. He gave John the once-over, his face devoid of emotion, before blinking languidly and looking back at the screen.

"Not interested." He continued texting.

"Ah…" Mike just smiled in a good natured way and shrugged at John. "Sorry."

So this what he'd meant by 'don't be offended.' Hm, that was proving to be difficult. John wasn’t used to getting brushed off so succinctly. Mike and John talked a little bit about football until Sherlock sighed loudly.

"Sherlock, dear, are you bored?" Betsy's voice from the kitchen.

"He looks it." John was still a bit miffed about the rude way he was greeted.

"In here, please." Betsy called. Sherlock rose, a mutinous look on his face, and slipped the phone into his pocket. "Here,” she said, “you can help me…"

With Sherlock’s recruitment, the meal was prepared faster and they were soon seated and eating a fantastic lamb roast. John was beside Mike and across from Sherlock, who was next to Betsy.

"Betsy," John said, swallowing a piece of lamb and mint sauce, "this is amazing."

"Thank you, John. I did have a little help though." She gave Sherlock a grin and he rolled his eyes.

"Oh God…"

"What do you do, Sherlock?" John asked, popping a toasted carrot in his mouth.

"I'm a detective." He said, raising his chin. "A consulting detective."

"What is that, exactly?"

At this, Sherlock aimed his laser gaze at John. "Afghanistan or Iraq?" He asked.

"Uh, Afghanistan. How…? Mike told you." He glanced at Mike.

The man shook his head. "Not a word."

Sherlock slid his eyes to John, giving him a look that screamed, ‘get serious.’ “I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. A dominant then, no surprise there. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists - you've been abroad but not sunbathing. The limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That suggests the original circumstances of the injury were probably traumatic - wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan - Afghanistan or Iraq.”

Sherlock paused after the rapid delivery and tilted his head back, looking down at John like he was steeling himself for a sharp rebuff.

John blinked. “That...was amazing.”

Sherlock stabbed at a piece of lamb on his plate, feigning nonchalance. He glanced up shyly after a moment and asked, “do you think so?”

"Absolutely. Do you do that with everyone?"

"Yes. That's why I'm a consulting detective. I invented the job."

"Hm." John nodded, genuinely impressed. “Fantastic. Not entirely correct, of course, but fantastic none the less.”

Sherlock jerked his head up in alarm. “What did I miss?!”

John grinned.

“John? What was it?”

John popped a bite of lamb in his mouth. “Not just a dom. A switch.”

“A _switch_.” Sherlock slapped his hand down on the table. “There’s always something….”

John grinned, taking another bite. "Any interesting cases you've taken?"

"They _all_ are. Otherwise I don't take them."

"Sherlock just caught someone embezzling at Scotland Yard, didn't you?" Betsy said, encouraging him to speak.

"Several months ago, yes." Sherlock said stiffly.

"The officers must have been grateful." John added.

"They're always grateful for my help, the dolts. Without me, half of London's criminals would still be going free. They couldn't even catch the idiot stealing from their own police force!"

"Sherlock…" Mike muttered quietly.

"Well they are!" Sherlock insisted.

"Why has it been so long since you took a case?" John asked, trying to steer the subject away from the police. "Did you go on holiday?"

Sherlock looked ready to murder something. "I do not _go on holiday._ " He snipped. "I wouldn’t expect anyone to understand or _care_ why‒"

"‒Sherlock." Betsy interrupted. "Can you refill my wineglass, please?" She said please, but it was clear it was an order.

Sherlock stood up and grabbed her empty glass, exiting the room. John looked at Mike, brows raised.

"He, uh," Mike dropped his voice. "He just got out of a bad relationship."

"Oh." John hummed sympathetically, drinking his beer. "I've been there. On both sides."

"This one was…pretty bad."

John put the beer down. Mike’s tone suggested it was more than a case of severe heartache.

"Is he okay?"

"Yeah, he will be."

Betsy was keeping her eye on the kitchen and when Sherlock didn't return, she put her fork down, tossed her napkin beside the plate, and followed after him. John was suddenly very glad that Sherlock had Mike and Betsy in his life. They were good friends and good people and if he was getting out of a bad relationship, there was no one better he could be confiding in.

"I don't want to say too much,” Mike said, “but his dom was, well, an arse."

"Abusive?" John suggested.

Mike nodded grimly. “Verbally. Mostly.”

"How long?" John asked.

"Were they together? On and off for fifteen years or so."

John shook his head. He could never, ever abuse a sub in any way. One of his kinks was giving pleasure, and the thought of abusing a sub that had placed that kind of trust and intimacy in him was so repelling that he had trouble even conceiving of it. The sub in him winced and a protective urge surged through his chest.

"Poor kid." He murmured. Mike nodded and Sherlock returned with Betsy. No wine was in sight. His face was expressionless, though there might have been a pink tinge around his eyes. They both sat back in their respective chairs and if Sherlock was sitting a little closer to Betsy than he had been before, no one said anything.

"John, how long will you be in London?" She asked. He didn't especially want to talk about his long term plans (seeing as there weren't any) , but it was clear that Sherlock was off-limits so John indulged them, telling them about maybe looking for a flatshare or something and telling amusing stories from his time overseas. He kept his hosts laughing and glossed over many of the grimmer details. The war was still fresh, and he didn't want to dwell too long on the negative aspects and put himself back in that place of helplessness and pain. Sherlock didn't say another word.

^^^^

  
Once the meal was finished, Sherlock brought his plate to the kitchen and reached for his coat by the door.

"Sherlock, hon, you can stay longer if you'd like." Betsy said. "There's cake."

He paused, but settled his coat on his shoulders. "I have to go." He looked at Mike, then at John, his gaze lingering on the war vet. John got up and hobbled over.

"It was good to meet you, Sherlock." He said, looking him in the eye. He extended his hand. Sherlock stared down at it for a moment before taking it and squeezing. "Likewise." He said stiffly. He swept out the door and was gone.

"I worry about him." Betsy said, coming back to the table. They all grabbed plates and started bringing them to the kitchen.

"With you two in his life I'm sure he'll be fine." John said, putting the remains of the meal next to the sink. Betsy squeezed his good shoulder affectionately.

"You charmer, you. You're welcome back here anytime, John Watson."

^^^^

Sherlock stared up at the dilapidated flat complex, his coat wrapped tight around his thin body as the cool breeze blew some trash around his feet. This wasn't the best part of town. He should just go home‒imagining the disapproval on Betsy and Mike's faces if they knew what he was thinking about doing was heart wrenching, but dammit he needed to forget. There was nothing inane dinner conversation or company could do to stop him from thinking about _Sebastian_. A light was on in his dealer's flat, the window glowing with the flickering blue of the television. Lotto was probably watching old episodes of _Kitchen Nightmares,_ commenting on how Ramsay was a“mean fuckin’ bastard” before he’d light up. Sherlock drew his coat tighter. He hadn’t had any in ages, but he wasn’t totally clean by any means. He just didn’t use when it suited him. He liked to think he had complete control over his addiction, and anyway, he hadn’t had a case big enough to warrant cocaine in ages. Seb had made him want to use. Seb and his…mannerisms. It had been months since he'd laid eyes on his old dom but he was a slow healer, and the years of Seb's wounding had gone deep. Sherlock remembered the last thing the man had said to him. _"You pathetic freak. I'm done with you and your bullshit. Get out of my flat and never talk to me again."_

Sherlock wasn't even sure what he had done to provoke him. Such was the mercurial temperament of doms though, right? Cruel and manipulative, that's what Seb had been. At least, according to Betsy and Mike. Sherlock didn’t really know. He didn’t have a whole lot of experience with doms other than Seb. His ‘relationship’ wall in his palace was in a dimly lit white drywall corridor and the notes there limited pretty much to what he learned from Seb. There were lots of angry holes punched in that wall. If Betsy could see that wall, she would probably be sad and cook him something. Stamford seemed very happy with her and Sherlock wondered sometimes what names she called him. How she made him feel small. That's what doms did, right? Breezed in and out of your life for sixteen years, making stupid subs drop to their knees at their beck and call, using sex as a weapon. Mycroft was right. Subs were the weaker dynamic.

He took a step forward, intending on walking through the door and buying a bag when the image of the other switch doctor from tonight swam in front of his mind's eye. What was his name again? Jack? No, John. John Watson. Sherlock had absolutely zero interest, but there was a pleasing softness about his eyes and mouth that a tiny part of the detective didn't find unappealing. He was military though. That meant when he did dom, he was probably utterly insufferable, a hopped up shouty drill sergeant type. No doubt John was a rude bastard in the bedroom too. Probably got off on making his subs do pushups. He shoved the images of his friends away and went into the building, knowing that he would hate himself in the morning but not caring at all right now.


	2. At the Pub

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has trouble focusing.

John woke up early the next morning out of habit and clonked into the kitchen with his cane, still half asleep, automatically pouring grounds into the coffee machine and adding water. His mind wandered as he stared at the drip, the machine bubbling and gurgling. He hoped Sherlock got home alright last night. He'd seemed out of sorts when he left and John hoped that his presence at the dinner hadn't exacerbated whatever residual feelings Sherlock had regarding his abusive, thankfully _former,_ dom. John took a deep breath as his angry protective side roared. Yes, Sherlock had been abused, but he was away from that relationship and he had Mike and Betsy now. He poured a mug and added a splash of milk, stirring. John sincerely hoped the younger man would be alright.

He took a shower and went about his day, and all the while the rude younger man from last night was drifting in and out of his thoughts. While putting a gallon of milk in his basket at the shops, he remembered the way Sherlock looked when he deduced, the look of genuine outrage on his face when he’d gotten John’s orientation incorrect.

When John was dialing the phone to call Harry he remembered the way Sherlock's long fingers had curved around the silver fork handle, how they adjusted the collar of his long coat.

While glancing through the newspaper, his perusal had been interrupted repeatedly by memories of the light on brunette curls and icy cool eyes and the tantalizing thought of just how sweet the detective would look kneeling naked, all that fair skin bared and flushed pink, wearing a dark collar‒bloody hell! John threw down the paper.

He hadn't seriously fantasized about collaring a complete stranger since before he went into the army. He wasn't some naïve novice dom, drooling over the first hot sub he'd ever seen! There were plenty of hot subs out there. John should know, he'd had several while on tour. A few young sub lads in his platoon had given him longing looks and there was an elegant bar owner with long ebony plaited hair he’d subbed for beautifully in Bombay. He smiled at the memory. That was some fun furlough. _Snap out of it, soldier,_ he chided. He picked up the paper and forced himself to focus on the sport page.

The next few days passed in a mundane way. Wake up, coffee, shower, Internet or newspaper. He might run some errands or meet with Ella, but really that was about it and as he did all this, somehow John always found his thoughts wandering back to Sherlock. _Why?_ He asked himself. John felt guilty in a way, his thinking about Sherlock meant he wasn’t thinking about Afghanistan and all the good and awful memories it had poured into his head. Using a sub he barely knew to escape from his problems probably wasn’t healthy and seemed to be the kind of thing Ella would purse her lips at and jot notes about. Sherlock had been rude and every inch of his body language screamed 'don't touch!' He was snippy and caustic and clearly hated anything to do with doms.

John’s dominant side couldn’t let go. This was a hurting sub—an interesting fellow too (seriously, who invented their own job?). He wanted to find out what was wrong. He wanted to make Sherlock’s pain go away. Betsy wasn't the only one who was worried about him. John picked up his phone a week after the dinner, texting Mike.

_Free for lunch today? JW_

The reply was soon coming‒ _Ah, I have to work through lunch. What about an early dinner? The pub up the road from Bart's? Does half 3 work for you? -M_

_Sounds good. I'll meet you there. JW_

Three thirty-four found John twirling his cardboard coaster, waiting for his pint and Mike to arrive at the table. It was quiet in the pub and the staff were chatting near the kitchen, eying the patrons now and then.

Mike bustled up to the table, giving a cheery, “hey John!” before he slung his coat over the chair and sat down. The waiter came over with John’s beer once Mike was settled and took their food orders.

“I’m starved.” Mike said once the waiter collected their menus and left. “It was busy today. Midterms are nigh. The kids are terrified.” Mike smirked and put his phone on the table.

“Don’t miss those days.” John sipped his cold beer. “How’s Betsy?”

“Lovely as usual.” Mike grinned stupidly and the side of John’s mouth went up in a grin.

“How’s…Sherlock?” John asked, hoping he didn’t sound too nosy.

“Haven’t heard from him since the dinner.” Mike said. The waiter brought his soft drink and he took it with a grateful “thank you.”

John nodded, sipping and wishing he had more to go on. “How long have you known him?”

“About a year?” Mike said, thinking. “I ran into him at Bart’s—he’s a good kid, he really is, he’s just, kind of in a bad way right now. Getting better though.”

“Was his dom male?”

Mike nodded. “He wasn’t exactly chatty about it—well you met him. You saw how he’s like.”

“He seemed really tense.” John mused. “Has he, do you know if he’s subbed at all since breaking up with his dom?”

“Not that I know of.” Mike said. “I told him he should properly sub, at the very least once a month but it doesn’t look like he has.” Mike sighed. “I don’t think he wants anything to do with subbing, to be honest.”

John shook his head. “It’s only going to get worse and then he’s going to get sick.”

It was essential to good health that submissives and dominants satisfy their respective dynamics. The chemical release the brain experienced when a submissive actually subbed or when a dom was topping them was healthy and required for the brain to function at peak levels. Someone who didn’t receive these needed chemicals was apt to get tense and irritable, lose sleep, lose weight—without treatment, the person would become depressed, refusing to eat or socialize, and eventually it could lead to hospitalization. Of course, getting these chemicals by artificial means was a fairly simple process. There were all kinds of over the counter pills and gums and patches for sale at every chemist’s and market. John had prescribed plenty of prescriptions for people who just didn’t have the time, means, or desire to indulge with a partner. The pills worked just fine, from a biological standpoint. He found from personal experience, though, that falling to his knees for a dom or feeding a sub from his hand was the best way to coax these chemicals into the bloodstream.

“Has he gone to a clinic?” John asked. “They don’t have the kinds of stigmas that they used to.”

“I doubt it.” Mike snorted. “He can barely be arsed to come to dinner when I invite him. I can’t see him subbing for a certified stranger in a doctor’s office. You worried about him?”

“Yeah, I,” John smiled in embarrassment and looked down at his glass, “I can’t really stop thinking about him. Maybe it’s the dom in me lonely for a sub—haven’t dommed in ages—but he just seemed a bit lost, or, I don’t know…”

Mike watched him attempt to work through his emotions, a funny little smile on his face as he got an idea. “We should go out again.” He said with a nod. “The three of us. What do you think?”

John perked up. “Sure, if he wants to.”

“This Thursday night? I’ll text him now.” Mike picked up his phone and dashed off a text, to John’s delight. “Maybe I can coax him out to a pub or something—oh dammit.” Mike put his phone down, looking dejected.

“What’s wrong?”

“Me and Bets are going to Glasgow on Friday morning. _Early._ I have a conference...” Mike made a face.

“We don’t need to stay out late.” John suggested, not wanting to cancel.

“I’ll ask her…see if she lets me go.” Mike muttered. His ears went a little pink and John grinned at the insight into their relationship. Betsy really did seem good for him, and Christ knew John had dommed more than a couple subs who requested he set curfews and dictate when and where they could go out and even who they could see (and give out punishment when the rules were broken). It was just one more way for a sub to give a dom control.

“I hope he says yes.” Mike added, glancing at the phone. “He’s about as social as a rock, but he’s been at our flat a few times and he’s always at the hospital.”

“At Bart’s? Why?” John blurted, alarmed.

“No, no—he’s not ill. Don’t worry.”

Their food came then, and Mike tucked into his fish and chips while John cut into his Shepherd’s pie.

“He does stuff for his cases there. He uses the equipment in the labs.”

“Ah.” John sighed in relief. God forbid he was ill on top of having been hurt. Or injured because he had been abused. John squeezed his fork. He wanted to hurt that dom, very badly.

“It would be great for him to have more people on his side.” Mike said. “Honestly, most people can’t stand him, but you’re a keeper, John. He’d be lucky to have you in his life.”

Mike’s phone chirped and lit up and he read the display.

_I’m in the middle of a case, Mike. I don’t have time for_ pubs _. When will you be back at Bart’s? I need the lab —SH_

Mike had a thought. “Why don’t you come to Bart’s with me after this? Check out the old stomping grounds for old time’s sake?”

John shrugged. Why not? “Sure.” He took a bite of his pie.

Mike sent a text back. _Out with a friend. Be back in about 45 minutes. -M_

* * *

 

God, but Bart’s had changed. And it wasn’t just the new coats of paint. Old classrooms had been converted to computer labs—indeed nearly every room had at least one computer. It was amazing what this generation of future doctors had access to.

Mike stopped by his office briefly before they wandered down a hallway where a lone figure was leaning against the wall next to a door marked ‘LAB 1’. John perked up instantly when he saw who it was.

“Hi Sherlock.” Mike said. “Just showing John around.” He gave the doctor a triumphant smile and unlocked the door.

“Took you long enough. I had half a mind to pick the lock.” Sherlock said. He glanced over John, that same sort of appealing sensation uncurling in his chest when he saw the doctor. _No._ He snapped at himself. _Whatever this is? No. Last thing I need is another crap dom in my life…_

“How long will you be?” Mike asked.

“I don’t know.” Sherlock swept over to a large, complicated-looking microscope and sat down, flicking a few switches expertly and waiting for something inside of it to power up. He took his mobile out of a pocket and made a face at it. “Mike, can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine.”

“I left it in my office.” Mike said, patting himself down.

“Here.” John pulled his smartphone out of his pocket. “Use mine.”

“Oh.” Sherlock blinked. “Thank you.” He took it and flipped open the keyboard, clicking out the fastest text John had ever seen typed.

“Are you working on a case?” John asked.

“Mm. DI _Dimmock_.” Sherlock let the name pop out of his mouth. “Recently promoted at Scotland Yard—an idiot, but might be good at his job someday.”

“That’s not very nice.” John said.

“Being nice won’t make someone more competent.” Sherlock snapped the phone closed. John took it back, miffed again at Sherlock’s rude behavior. _Why the hell was this arse consuming my thoughts the other day?_ John slid the phone in his pocket and noticed Mike glancing at his watch.

“Mike if you need to go, I remember the way out.”

The other doctor gave him a grateful smile. “That’d be great, John.”

They made their good-byes and Mike left, leaving Sherlock and John in silence. The microscope was ready now, and Sherlock was looking at something green on a slide, making notes in a little black moleskine.

_Okay,_ John thought to himself sarcastically, _the object of your thoughts is here, right in front of you. Say something amazing._

“So—” John began. He never got the chance to say more.

“John.” Sherlock leaned away from the microscope, staring at him. “I don’t know what what Mike is playing at, at being matchmaker or other—but I’m not interested. I’m not interested in having a dom right now—or indeed ever again, and even if I was looking, I would never choose someone like _you_.” He leaned back towards the microscope, twisting a knob.

John stood there, feeling like he’d just been slapped across the face. Never had he been rebuffed so succinctly.

“I wasn’t—”

“—I think it would be best if you left.” Sherlock said in a cold voice.

“Fine.” John clenched his fist. “Just trying to be friendly. It can be rough, I know, getting out of _any_ kind of long term relationship,”

Sherlock blinked a few times, holding very still.

“I was just trying to help.” John added. He felt he should say more, but Sherlock clearly was done with him, so he left the room and the acidic detective therein with his head held high.


	3. Defensive Maneuvers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dub-con (nothing major) and mentions of drugs in this chapter.

DI Paul Dimmock was having a wretched day. First he’d overslept. Then there was traffic. Then the buffoons in accounting still hadn’t quite figured out how to begin getting his pay rise from the promotion applied to his paychecks. His first case as a Detective Inspector had gone well enough (thank the fates) but this second one was a mess and this ‘consulting detective’ Lestrade had recommended was, at the very best, a loose cannon.

“So you’re saying,” he stared at said loose cannon, who was watching him with an intelligent hawkish gaze from the other side of his desk, “that the suspected murderer, the one who killed the sub Sandra Llwellyn, has…just…vanished?”

“I’m looking.”

“What about relatives’ house—family, friends?”

Sherlock was shaking his head. “No family to speak of and I’ve spoken with the acquaintances. Sandra had a dom girlfriend, Jamie Wheeler, but attempts to contact her have been unsuccessful. I’ll go to Jamie’s home again.” Sherlock slipped on his gloves, “maybe she’s returned.”

“Not you.” Dimmock said.

Sherlock looked up, startled. “Why?”

“Because if she’s not there, you’re going to break and enter—don’t deny it, Lestrade told me about you. And if Wheeler is there, she’ll likely be in Defense since her sub just died. And I doubt she’s taken any suppressants.”

“She won’t be in Defense if she’s the killer.”

Dimmock stared at him for a moment. “Doms go into Defense if the emotional bond between them and their sub is extremely strong. Haven’t you ever taken a basic biology course? It’s—”

“—Emotional.” Sherlock sneered. “Doms go into Defense if they feel threatened. Like territorial animals. It has nothing to do with their so-called bonds with their subs.”

“Mr. Holmes.” Dimmock looked to be at the end of his patience and he dropped the subject, giving it up to avoid the argument. “No.”

“Give me a warrant if you don’t want me to break and enter.”

“You’re not an officer, you can’t serve a warrant.” Dimmock got up, smoothing his tie, trying to figure out the best course of action. “I’ll send officers to her house and we’ll check her workplace.”

“But Inspector—”

“Mr. Holmes.” He said in a warning tone as he strode from his desk. “Don’t.”

 Sherlock definitely _did_ , picking his way into Jamie’s house in a matter of minutes, very nearly breaking his own personal lock picking record. Smallish home, decorated in lots of florals. Who needs a warrant now?

Sherlock crept through the empty, dim foyer, glancing into the tidy kitchen. Bartender, celiac—judging by the brand of bread left on the counter top. A soothing pink-toned bottle of Sedix was on the counter as well. Sealed. Not taking the suppressants then. He stopped to rifle through the mail on the end table, mostly bills addressed to Ms. Wheeler. A sudden thud from the direction of the back door made him freeze, and he looked up just in time to see the dom in question push into her home. Their eyes met briefly, and Sherlock could tell instantly from the tight set of her shoulders and blaze of rage in her brown eyes that she was most definitely in Defense. She looked awful—unwashed hair, a baggy wrinkled Mickey Mouse sweatshirt, pajama bottoms with a hole in the knee. He sniffed the air as it breezed in from the open door, carrying her scent with it. She’d been outside for a smoke, that was certain, and if the visual cues weren’t enough, the unmistakable, vaguely yeasty musk of Defense filled his nostrils. It was a smell that meant ‘stay away. Very, very far away.’ Sherlock, unfortunately, was not very far away.

Jamie lunged at him with a feral snarl, snatching a blue and white flowered vase from the sideboard and raising it overhead. He had just enough time to drop the mail and lift his arm to protect himself before the vase shattered against his left elbow. He winced as pain shot up his humerus and hot blood poured onto his silky shirt under his coat.

“Jamie!” He bellowed.

“Get the fuck out of my house!”

“I’m with the police!” He said firmly, holding up his right hand palm-out in what he hoped was a placating gesture. His left arm he cradled towards his ribs, aching and burning. She grabbed the phone, dialing the police.

“No,” he said, “I’m with them—I’m trying to find out who killed Sandra—”

That was definitely the wrong thing to say. Hissing and spitting, Jamie leaped at him, pinning him to the floor face down with a knee in his back. It was tempting as hell to fight back, but a dom in Defense was a force to be reckoned with. There was a story in the news just last month about a petite 5’3” Chinese dom who had gone into Defense when her sub was sent to Iraq. She’d put a burly Uni-aged rugby player in hospital before the police managed to subdue her. From a scientific standpoint, the biology of Defense was fascinating, but not so much at this moment. No, fighting back would just make Jamie see him as more of a threat.

“You piece of shit, what do you know about Sandra?” She hissed down at him.

“Only that she’s dead.” Sherlock said to the carpet. “The police are trying to contact you—it would be best for you to cooperate. Right now you’re the number one suspect. If you really do care about her, you’ll help them find her killer.”

Jamie kept him pinned down until police arrived, and Dimmock was less than impressed to see him.

“Serves you right.” Dimmock snipped thirty minutes later, closing the jail cell door on Sherlock, who was still holding his aching arm to his chest. “Cool your heels in here while actual police officers go solve the murder. If you make bail, don’t bother pursuing this case anymore, Mr. Holmes, or the inside of a jail cell will be the least of your problems.” He left and Sherlock made a childish face at the door before he sank to the crappy little cot in the cell. Dimmock had allowed him his phone and all his belongings at least, so he grabbed his phone and dialed the one person he could think of to help him out.

Mike’s phone rang and rang, then went to voicemail.

“Mike, pick up your phone. I’m in jail and I need bail money. Don’t roll your eyes,” he said snidely into the recorder, “it was for a case. Call me back. Please.” He hung up. He could just wait. Dimmock wouldn’t leave him in here for all that long, but dammit, he wanted to solve the bleeding case! He hated waiting. He hated being told to wait by sneery little police officers. Mike would bail him and he’d go out and finish what he started.

* * *

John Watson was reading his book on a bench in the park when his mobile rang.

“Mike?” He said at the screen. He tapped the ‘answer’ button and put the machine to his ear. “Hi Mike. Everything alright?”

_“Well, yeah, but no. Can you do me a huge favor?”_

“Sure, what’s going on?” John pocketed his novel and hoisted himself up with his cane.

_“It’s Sherlock.”_

“Oh. What’s wrong with Sherlock?” John remembered the rude way the sub had spoken to him the other day at Bart’s, and at the moment he had no further interest in speaking with the surly detective.

_“He’s in jail. He called me to bail him, but I can’t do that from Glasgow. So could you…get him and bring him home? You’ll get the money back of course, he’s good for it. If you can’t, I understand. This is a huge favor…”_

“I’ll do it.” John said. If not to help Sherlock, then to help Mike he would do it. And if he was being honest, there was a little sadistic part of him that wanted to see the arrogant sub humbled in a jail cell. The look on his face when he saw John was the one bailing him would probably be priceless.

_“Thanks, John. I knew I could count on you, mate.”_

“No problem, Mike. None at all.”

* * *

 _“Sherlock, I’m in Glasgow so I can’t come bail you._ ”

“What?! You never go anywhere—why the hell are you in Glasgow?!”

 _“For work.”_ Mike’s voice was testy. _“John Watson will post bail.”_

“Joh—No. No, not him. I don’t even like John!” Sherlock wailed into the phone.

 _“It’s either John or I call Mycroft. What’s it going to be?”_ Mike snipped into the line.

“Oh for God’s sake. Fine. John.” Sherlock hung up and flung the phone at the cot. His elbow was throbbing and his forearm was bleeding from where that crazy girl had broken the vase on him. Honestly, she sees one stranger in her flat and she assumes the worst. What was wrong with people?

The door opened down the corridor and he pressed up against the bars, watching Lestrade amble towards him with a less than impressed expression on his face.

“Let me out!” Sherlock demanded, clenching the iron bars.

“Nope.” Greg crossed his arms placidly.

“Why not? Forget your keys?”

“No. You broke and entered. You deserve to be in there.”

“I was looking for the murderer.”

“And Dimmock told you not to.”

“She was in Defense.” Sherlock said.

“All the more reason for you not to break in to a strange dom’s house. Honestly, Sherlock!” He admonished.

The detective looked away.

“Look at me.” Lestrade said.

Sherlock did and Greg stared at his eyes, hard.

“Oh relax, I’m not high.” Sherlock muttered, his neck flushing and his bum twinging.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you were—given how monumentally stupid that was! And you can thank the stars you’re not, otherwise I’d be sobering you up right good.”

Sherlock was seriously glad he wasn’t high.Greg’s unique method of ‘sobering him up’ wasn’t something he needed to be acquainted with yet again. Twice had been plenty…

" _Get in here.” Greg pushed open the door to his flat one evening around midnight and ushered a very damp Sherlock, aged twenty-eight, in from the rain._

_“Gavin…I can go home…”_

_“You’re not going anywhere but the shower and then the sofa. We’re going to have a talk. Take your shoes off.” Lestrade shut the door behind them both and kicked off his shoes. Sherlock stood in the foyer listlessly as the officer moved past him and towards his bedroom. Honest to Christ, Sherlock once again had shown up to a crime scene sweating and wide eyed and shaking. Lestrade had talked to him about this before, oh yes, they’d had a ‘discussion’ regarding his drug habits a few months ago. That ‘discussion’ seemed to stick with the brilliant sub for a good long while, fortunately. Until tonight. “And it’s Greg!” He yelled. He grabbed a spare pair of sweatpants and a big Tshirt, leaving them in the loo. He changed quickly out of his own wet things and went back to the front door. Sherlock had managed one shoe on his own and he was rubbing his face._

_“I don’t feel well, Lestrade.”_

_“No, you wouldn’t. You’re coming down from a coke high.”_

_He put two fingers on Sherlock’s carotid artery, feeling for a pulse. It was higher than it should be—another effect of coming down. He grabbed Sherlock by the elbow, helping him step out of his shoe before he steered him somewhat gently to the bathroom. “Take a hot shower.” Greg said. “Then put those on.” He pointed at the dry clothes. “Understand?”_

_“It’s simple enough.” Sherlock snarled._

_“Well I don’t know. What with all the coke running through your brain, you might be having trouble!” He snapped. “Call if you need help.” He slammed the door and went to the kitchen, preparing a very strong a pot of coffee. They were both going to be awake for a little bit yet. Greg didn’t want to sleep until Sherlock was feeling better, and anyway, they had that ‘discussion’ to get through. Twenty minutes later, Sherlock emerged in the new clothes. His hair was wet and tousled and he looked a little sheepish._

_“Come here.” Greg called in a gruff voice. Sherlock appeared and he placed a mug of hot coffee in his hands. “Drink.”_

_Sherlock did, sipping the hot brew._

_“Let me see.” Greg beckoned and Sherlock looked up, allowing the officer to check his pupils. Still blacker than he’d prefer. He felt his pulse again. Still quick, but slowing. “Yeah…you’re getting there. Finish that.” He nodded at the coffee and Sherlock drank more._

_“My head feels weird.” He said._

_“That’s you coming down from the high. You don’t do this kind of thing, Sherlock!” He yelled, slamming his fist on the counter. “You don’t get high and you sure as hell don’t show up to my crime scenes high! I could have gotten in trouble—not to mention it was just plain dangerous and illegal. You’re too good for this kind of thing. I won’t stand by and let you drive yourself into the ground.”_

_“Spare me your lectures.” Sherlock muttered. “I’ll do what I want.”_

_“The hell you will.” Greg growled. “If you won’t listen to my words then I’ll have to get through to you another way.” He plucked the empty mug from Sherlock’s hands and set it on the table, grabbing him by the arm and bringing him to the sofa. He sat down on the center cushion and pulled the detective over his knee._

_“No…” Sherlock protested weakly. “No, Lestrade…not again! You can’t!”_

_Greg pulled at him, spreading his own knees and adjusting the sub until he was situated. He grabbed the waistband of the sweats and yanked down, baring his arse._

_“No!” Sherlock wriggled, trying to get upright. “You can’t!”_

_“Who’s going to stop me?!” Greg snapped. “You’re too good for drugs, Sherlock! You can’t keep doing them!” He grabbed his arm, pinning it to his back, and started smacking his arse hard and fast, putting his shoulder into every blow._

_“Ow!” Sherlock jerked up, trying to throw himself off his lap._

_“No!” Greg shouted down at him. He smacked him again and again, turning his white arse pink in seconds._

_“Ow—fuck, Lestrade! Ow!” Sherlock wailed and wriggled, jerking around like a fish._

_“You don’t do drugs!” Greg yelled over his cries. “We’ve talked about this before, remember that?”_

_“Yes! Yes I remember!”_

_They’d talked about it alright, they’d had this exact discussion before._

_“And every time you do drugs, I will spank you just like this! Hold still!” Greg stopped smacking just long enough to readjust him. He’d flailed so much he was falling off his leg._

_“It hurts!” Sherlock sobbed. “I can’t hold still!”_

_“Try.” Greg grit his teeth and resumed spanking. He didn’t give these out very often. They were always strictly punishment and only given if someone had really, really fucked up. He knew how brutal they were, but also how effective. Submissives pleading over his knee got no mercy until he was finished, and that was always something he decided. Not them._

_“Stop!” Sherlock wailed. His body was stressed from the high and he was emotionally overwhelmed by the crash and at this moment, he was as far removed from the conceited detective that always pranced around his crime scenes as he could be. Now he was just an over-tired submissive in serious need of some attention. Greg sympathized and he cared about the kid, otherwise he wouldn’t even bother to do this._

_“Not yet.” Greg said. He continued spanking, whacking each wriggling, warm cheek. Sherlock made a choked sort of squealing noise and kicked his feet. “Stop—oh please stop!”_

_Greg walloped him a few more times and paused, pulling Sherlock forward to get a better angle to see his arse. He was crying pretty hard, his tears brought on by the spanking and the emotional and mental crash of the high. Both cheeks were an impressive shade of crimson. He would probably bruise. He could use a little more color though, right where his arse met his legs._

_“Brace yourself.” Greg scooted him easily back and resumed the burning smacks. Sherlock jerked up._

_“Stop! Stop—ow!”_

_Greg planted a few more on each side, right on the sensitive areas of skin, before pausing and scooting him forward again. That looked effective. He ran his palm over the hot skin._

_“Ow-ow, ow.” Sherlock twisted to the side, unable to move much because of the grip on his arm._

_“Alright.” Greg muttered. Sherlock was shuddering with tears, limp over his legs. “Are we going to have to do this again?” He rested his hand on the sore skin._

_“No! No, never.”_

_“I’ll believe that when I see it.” Greg leaned over him, grabbing a tube of lotion off the coffee table. He popped the cap and smeared some white goop on his fingers, then gently smoothed it across Sherlock’s bottom._

_“Ow! Ow, ow, fuck!”_

_“Sh…” He soothed, “I know this was harsh and you probably think I’m a right bastard for doing it.” He smeared the cream evenly over both sides of his bottom. Sherlock shuddered. “But dammit, Sherlock. You’re too good for this kind of thing! You are one of the most brilliant people I’ve ever met. You really have something—your brain is, just so smart and you have the opportunity to to do whatever you want with it.” He squirted more lotion onto his hand and rubbed the cool cream in a gentle circle over both cheeks. Sherlock’s shuddering sobs had tapered off, and now he just sniffled once in awhile. “You want more cream?”_

_A nod._

_Greg squeezed another generous amount onto his hand and kept rubbing, covering every inch of discolored flesh._

_“You’re welcome to the crime scenes, but not when you’re high. You show up high, you get spanked. If I hear you were high, you get spanked. Just like this.” He patted his bottom and Sherlock winced. “Understand?”_

_“Yes!”_

_“Okay. Good.” Greg let him lay there. He moved off his arse and twisted to rub his shoulders, kneading the tight muscles and working them loose._

_“I’m sorry.” Sherlock mumbled._

_“That’s good to hear.”_

_“You’re wrong too, you know.”_

_“Oh? About what?”_

_“I don’t think you’re a bastard.”_

He slept on the sofa that night and was sent off on his way the next morning with a stern warning, a hug, and a belly full of breakfast. Greg hadn’t had to have a ‘discussion’ with him since. Oh sure, he’d been high since, but Greg didn’t need to know that.

“I’ll let John deal with you.” Lestrade said. “He’s on his way.”

Sherlock sighed and sank to the cot as he strode away. John. Mike’s hot blonde friend who he had an aching crush on despite his swearing off doms forever. Dammit.

 


	4. Up in Arms

John couldn’t hide the smirk on his face when Detective Inspector Lestrade opened the cell and let a stormy Sherlock out into the corridor.

“Shut up!” Was the first thing he snapped at the doctor. John’s smirk faded instantly, his expression changing to angry steel.

“Listen.” He stepped into Sherlock’s space. “There is _one_ thing you should be saying to me, and that thing is ‘thank you.’ You have for whatever reason elected to hate me, but I’ll not stand here and endure your poor attitude the way everyone else seems to be happy doing. I went out of my way to do Mike a favor, and you could show a little gratitude.”

Sherlock licked his lips, actually a tiny bit chastened. He’d forgotten momentarily that John was a switch, currently verging heavily on the dominant side. If what he just saw was anything to go by, John in Defense must be pretty terrifying. Embarrassingly, the sub in him was reacting, suggesting he drop to his knees in apology for offending the blond doctor with the nice eyes. No way was that going to happen. Sherlock looked down and shuffled his feet.

John continued speaking in that no nonsense dominant tone. “We still need to sign some paperwork and then I’m taking you home and I’m going to look at that arm that you’re favoring.”

“My arm is fine.” Sherlock growled.

“Prove it. Straighten your elbow.” John said, folding his arms and eying the obviously sore limb.

Sherlock tried. The throb ratcheted up to a burn and he winced, curling it in on himself again.

“Uh-huh. Home with you.”

“I don’t need your sodding help!” Sherlock hissed, angry that his arm was hurting and angry that the bossy doctor’s tone was actually affecting him. He didn’t need to sub for anyone! He could take care of himself. That way, Seb and no one else would hurt him ever. No doubt John could see the effect this was having too, as Sherlock couldn’t even make eye contact. What John said next didn’t help matters any.

“If you were _my_ sub and you kept up this appalling attitude, you’d be walking out of this police station with a stinging bottom and an apologetic tongue. Keep arguing and you still might. Now _move._ ”

* * *

They got a cab just outside the station. “Where to?” The man asked. Sherlock gave John a long-suffering look, one that the doctor had no sympathy for.

“Tell him.” John said.

“221 Baker Street.” Sherlock muttered.

They got there quickly and John paid the fare. “Go inside.” He told him. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

“John, you don’t—”

“What did I say would happen if you argued with me?” John snipped as he counted out the notes.

Sherlock closed his mouth, his neck going pink as he remembered. John grinned to himself and handed the money over. _Don’t take the teasing too far,_ a little voice inside suggested. _Bad relationship? Remember?_

He wouldn’t take it too far, and Sherlock didn’t believe him anyway if his mutinous pout and he solid way he planted himself on the pavement was anything to go by.

“Go on in.” John gentled his voice. “Your arm must be killing you. Let me look at it inside.”

Sherlock’s angry scowl softened and he turned with a swirl of coat and opened the black door, striding inside.

 

John had no idea how a man like Sherlock would choose to decorate his flat, but what he saw was somehow fitting. Eclectic, odd, cluttered, and out there were all in the same neighborhood in Sherlock’s weirdly cozy flat. Papers and clothes and _stuff_ filled most surfaces in the sitting room, and in the kitchen there was—

“Dear Christ, is that an eyeball?” John squinted down at the brown iris staring up at him from a powder blue egg cup.

“Yup.” Sherlock shrugged gingerly out of his coat.

“Let me help.” John eased him out of it and hung it on the door. He helped with the tailored suit coat next, revealing a soft white shirt. “I didn’t know you were bleeding.” John said, eying the vivid red stain on the fabric. “Roll up your sleeve and sit down there.” He pointed at a kitchen chair. “Do you have a first aid kit?”

“On the fridge.” Sherlock winced and unbuttoned his shirt cuff and rolled the sleeve up his arm, peeling it away from the blood. His pride was telling him to throw this pushy dom out of his flat and out of his life, but his arm was suggesting he let the doctor stay and help. His arm was winning by a mile. John grabbed the kit down and wiped his sleeve over the dust that had accumulated on the plastic box. He found a towel folded on the counter and took a clean bowl from the dish drainer, filling it with warm water.

“Oh,” Sherlock said. “Don’t use that towel.”

“Why not?” John looked down at the faded plaid.

“I’m storing the fingers in there.”

Frowning, John opened the towel and blinked at the three severed digits. He hastily wadded it back up and set it down where he had found it and took a couple sheets of paper towel instead.

“Alright mate.” John pulled up another chair and put his items on the table. He opened the kit and pulled on the gloves that were inside. “Let’s have a look.” He slid into doctor mode and gently pulled at the skin around the scabbing cut on his forearm. “Not too deep. It’s a bad scrape, but you don’t need stitches.” He took the paper towel and got it wet with the water before he wiped the extra blood away. He popped the bottle of antiseptic out of the case and opened it up. “This might sting.” He said.

“Fine.”

John squirted some onto the scratch, dabbing it with the paper towel. Sherlock closed his eyes, clearing his throat as the liquid stung and bit deep. “Sorry.” John murmured. He rubbed some medicinal cream onto the skin and once again Sherlock clenched his eyes closed. The sting faded and John wrapped some gauze around the wound, taping it with the surgical tape in the kit. “Good. That’s that done.”

Sherlock examined the wrapped arm, grunting in approval at John’s handiwork.

“Now your elbow.” He scooted forward in the chair, then paused. “Can I touch?”

“Yes.” Sherlock watched as warm capable fingers rolled his sleeve back some more and cradled his elbow, feeling the joint. “Does this hurt?” John pushed a spot with his thumb.

“No.”

“Does this?” Another push.

“No.”

“How about here?”

Sherlock snarled and pulled away.

John sat back. “Bend it as far as you can without pain. I want to see range of motion.”

Sherlock didn’t get very far, managing a slight bend and twist.

“It’s a sprain. Do you have a sling?”

“No.” Sherlock cupped his hand over the sore joint.

“I’ll bring you one.” John got up and went to the freezer. No ice packs, but there was a long forgotten bag of frozen chopped carrots behind what appeared to be the left hemisphere of a human brain. John gamely grabbed the carrots and shut the freezer door.

Sherlock’s phone chirped with a text and he picked it up.

 

  _Are you bailed? -M_

Sherlock set the phone on the table top and wrote back with one tapping finger.

_Yes. John did it. —SH_

_And was it so horrible? ;) -M_

Sherlock didn’t deign that with an answer. The truth was that he wanted it to be, but it wasn’t. John was calm and capable and he didn’t take any of his attitude, nor did he give him a hard time or call him a stupid bastard for actually getting incarcerated. It was…kind of nice.

“Is there paracetemol? You can have some.”

“Shelf above the kettle.”

John opened the cabinet and saw the bottle of pills and a box of tea. He took both down and added water to the kettle, switching it on.

“Put that on your elbow.” John dropped the carrots on the table. Sherlock wrapped them in a paper towel and held it to his arm as behind him, the kettle bubbled and John found a mug in the drainer. It was weird to have someone else in his flat, in his space, doing something as mundane as making tea. He didn’t have much company, save Mike, clients, and unwanted visits from Mycroft.

“How do you take it?” John asked.

“Milk and sugar.”

John brought the mug to the table.

“How is it? The carrots helping?”

“Somewhat. You don’t need to stay, John.” _Though it would be sort of nice if you did…_

“Are you trying to get rid of me?”

“I don’t need to be doted on.”

“I never said you did. I need to get you that sling.”

“I don’t need a sling.” He sniffed.

“Yes you do. Doctor’s orders. There’s a shop up the road, I’ll be right back.”

Sherlock watched John leave, opening up the kitchen door and thumping down the steps. He blinked and looked back at the steaming mug on the table. An absurd thought popped unbidden out of a window in his palace: _If John was here more often, I bet he would make me tea every visit._ It was an odd thought, one that Sherlock didn’t even know how to process. What did it mean? It was a fact, yes, but did he like that fact? Did he want John around here more often? _No,_ he thought childishly, _I don’t like him._ He made a face and looked down again at the carefully placed gauze, softening a bit. Hm. Okay, so John had bandaged him up—not that Sherlock couldn’t have done it himself, thanks.

John had made him tea. Big deal.

John was going out of his way to get him a sling. That was completely unneeded.

John had bailed him out of jail. At Mike’s request.

This was silly—why was he even dwelling on this stupid thought? Why was he bothering at all? He wasn’t interested and neither was the doctor and really who _cared_ if John was interested in him? The point was, that _he_ wasn’t! He didn’t want another crap dom in his life to push him around. To hurt him. To call him names and keep him from doing his cases just because he could. What had Betsy and Mike called it? They had said Seb was manipulative. That was the word they used. When Sherlock told Betsy how Seb would blame him for his bad days at work, or claim that anything that went wrong around the flat was Sherlock’s fault, they said it was manipulation but Sherlock wasn’t sure. Seb was mercurial at best, even on good days…

  _Sherlock set the test tubes up against the wall under the cabinet. They were out of the way and in dim light—exactly what he needed to ensure the mold would grow correctly. He had three tubes: one a was a control, and the others contained compounds that he hoped would grow according to his hypotheses. As long as they were left alone, it would be fine. They were far enough back on the counter top and far enough under the cabinet that they wouldn’t be in Seb’s way. The dom had forbidden him from taking a case with Lestrade, so Sherlock had started this experiment instead. It didn’t smell and didn’t involve body parts—Seb hated the body parts. He’d told Sherlock in no uncertain terms that human remains in the flat would be met with harsh punishment. Sherlock believed him._

_He made a few notes on his computer about the mold and left the flat to go to the labs._

_When he returned a few hours later, Seb was on the sofa watching telly with a beer in his hand. His navy tie was loosened and his shirt unbuttoned at the top. He must had just gotten home. Sherlock stepped into the kitchen and froze. His tubes were broken, having been shoved off to the side. The holder had tipped and the tubes spilled and cracked._

_“What happened to this?” He asked._

_“Your shit was in my way.”_

_“How was this in the way?” Sherlock picked up the broken bits. He could redo the experiment, sure, but it was annoying to see his things broken like this._

_“I don’t like that garbage on the counter.”_

_“Where should I do it, then?” He asked, sweeping the bits into the bin._

_“It’s disgusting. Don’t do it at all.”_

_Sherlock licked his lips. **It’s** disgusting is what he said but Sherlock couldn’t help but hear **you’re** disgusting._

_He could do it at the lab, he supposed. It would be safer there. The convenience factor would be gone but he could at least do the experiment._

_“Can you ask me, in the future?” His teeth were gritted and he righted the plastic stand. “I could move it, rather than you just break my things?”_

_Seb muttered something under his breath._

_“What?”_

_“If you don’t want your shit broken, keep it off the table! It’s not hard, Sherlock. What the hell were you growing in there? Mold? Fucking hell.”_

_The detective left. He didn’t want to deal with Seb and deal with his weird bullshit._

 He’d wandered London that evening, even going up to his favorite bolt-hole behind Big Ben’s face. It was chilly up there but the view was unparalleled. It was a good place to sit and think and smoke. He’d gone back to the flat during the small hours and crashed on the sofa.

  _Sherlock woke up the next morning to a cold flat, a crick in his hip, and Seb muttering to himself in the bedroom. He listened, unable to hear much except the odd swear word spat out in an angry tone. What the hell? Was he on the phone at—Sherlock’s looked at his phone—half six? He lay there, listening and also trying really hard not to. Seb came out of the bedroom and slammed something down on the counter. Sherlock startled at the sudden loud sound and again the ranting continued. Something about his workplace and the mess in the flat. Sherlock rolled his eyes. It really wasn’t that messy, but he’d see what he could clean up later. Finally, Sebastian left and Sherlock got up. He wandered into the kitchen and stared around. He wiped up a few crumbs on the counter and went through a stack of his journals on top of the microwave, throwing away old ones and putting the ones he wanted to keep on the bookshelf. He put the dishes in the draining board away and looked around. It seemed fine to him. Definitely cleaner, and not a mold spore in sight._

Seb had come home from work in a foul mood and again bitched about the mess. They’d argued that night, so much so that the neighbors complained...

 

Sherlock shook himself out of memory and flipped the thawing bag of carrots over on his arm, then chugged half of his cooled tea. It was good to be away from that. It was nice to have his own flat, his own space. He could put body parts wherever he wanted and he’d ended up growing an elaborate mold culture on the windowsill just because he could. He missed Seb in a way, not all the times had been bad. For Valentine’s Day one year, he had taken Sherlock to the museum see a limited-time exhibit on the human body. That had been rather fascinating. Initially he would gift Sherlock with chemistry equipment or subscriptions to expensive science journals and in response Sherlock would do whatever the man asked for in bed. The first few years were like that and Sherlock thought he was happy and maybe even in love. He wondered now though if he had actually been in love with the man, or just been content that there was someone out there willing to give him the time of day. The longer they were together, the more their mutual attraction deteriorated until there was just bitterness and bile left. Sherlock knew that separating was the right thing to do. They should have done it years ago. He got lonely at times but it was really great having his own space.

John would be back soon, so he boiled the water again to get it piping and made a fresh mug of tea. The door slammed downstairs and then feet on the steps. Sherlock held the mug out to him with his good arm as John breezed back through the door.

“Oh!” He stopped abruptly in front of the outstretched mug. “Thank you.” He took it and sipped. “Lovely. I got the sling and a real ice bag too. C’mere so I can put it on.”

Sherlock did.

* * *

To his surprise, John just sort of…hung out at the flat for the next few hours. He had a book with him and he sat in the red armchair with his tea on the side table (that he had refilled three times, making a fresh one for Sherlock each time). Sherlock was on the sofa with the ice bag and his laptop checking his website. He could see John out of the corner of his eye and he was startled by how unobtrusive the doctor was turning out to be. Sherlock didn’t generally like people in his flat. It was his space and his work and he didn’t want other people coming in and ruining it or making him feel self conscious about it. John though…he hadn’t even flinched over the fingers or the eye or the general chaos of the place. The only other person in the world who didn’t care about his fondness for collecting body parts was Mrs. Hudson and even she had her limits.

“How did you get put in jail?” John asked.

“What?”

“What did you do to end up in that cell?” John closed his book and sipped his tea.

“Breaking and entering.”

“How did you get hurt?”

“The dom showed up unexpectedly. She was in Defense and attacked me.”

“Did they catch the murderer?” John asked.

“Not that I know of. Dimmock kicked me off the case, so I’ll stay away for a while before reinstating myself—even though I loathe waiting.” He clacked at his keyboard, very aware of John’s eyes on him. “My brain is like a rocket, tearing itself to pieces on the launchpad—it doesn’t do me any good to _wait._ ”

The doctor got up and came to the sofa, sitting beside him and stifling an eyeroll. “Let me see.” He beckoned for Sherlock’s arm and the detective obliged. John lifted off the ice pack and removed the sling, feeling the joint again. “A little swollen.” He said. “To be expected. You might bruise too.”

“Mm…” Sherlock continued to type one-handed. John found this endearing and he couldn’t help the goofy grin that crossed his face, which he stuffed away before Sherlock could see. He rubbed his fingers gently over the joint. “Do you know your anatomy, Sherlock?” John asked, avoiding the gauze.

“Very well.”

“What’s this?” John ran his fingers over the hard bone on the underside of Sherlock’s forearm.

“The ulna.”

“And this?” He rested his hand on the muscle on top of the arm.

“The, the radius bone under the brachioradialis muscle.”

John was impressed. “And this?” He touched the hard bit at the very end of his elbow.

“The Olecranon Process.”

“I’m impressed, Mr. Holmes. Full marks.” He gently rubbed his upper arm, staying well away from the sling and gauze. Sherlock smiled, surprised at himself for how much he didn’t mind that John was touching him. No, in fact, this felt exquisite. He tended to just stand there when Mrs. Hudson hugged him. And Seb never touched him much except when he wanted sex. But here John was touching all over his arm—his _wounded_ arm—and he didn’t mind? That was unusual. He wasn’t sure how to process it so he pulled away.

“Oh sorry.” John said. “Too much?”

_No, it felt amazing._ “It’s starting to hurt again.”

“That’s enough then.” He paused. “I should go.”

“I think that’s best.” Sherlock said, clearing his throat and picking up where he left off on his laptop. John took up his empty mug, feeling a pang at Sherlock’s abrupt dismissal. _He doesn’t like you, remember?_ John said to himself. He put the mug in the sink and grabbed his jacket off the chair.

“John.”

Sherlock was in the doorway, holding out a piece of a paper. John took it. A check for the bail money. He thought of refusing, then decided maybe that would be impolite. Would be impolite to refuse a repayment of bail money? John didn’t know the protocol, but it had been pricey and he wasn’t wealthy, so he took it and pocketed it. His warm fingers brushed Sherlock’s and a spike of something eager and wanting raced through John’s chest.

“Thanks.” He said, adjusting his coat. _Don’t go!_ His dom side screamed. _He’s hurting and you can help him. He could be your sub! Or at least a friend, right?_

John told it to shut the hell up. “Call me if you need anything.” He said. “Take care of that cut—put more cream on there after bathing. Change the dressings twice a day and in a few days you can leave the bandage off at night.”

“Yes, John.”

“Take paracetemol for your elbow and try not to use it. Avoid alcohol and exercise for the first 48 hours.”

“Yes John.”

The doctor paused. From what Mike had said, Sherlock managed to push away everyone that came near him. The fact that he was this relaxed in John’s—a dom’s—presence spoke volumes. He hadn’t been this content at the dinner party but he was perfectly alright having this strange dom in his home touching his injured arm. John felt there was something to that, but he didn’t know what.

“Have a good day.” John left the flat before he could do or say anything spectacularly stupid. Sherlock watched him go. Something painful lurched in his heart as he watched him leave. Something that didn’t want the doctor to go. “Goodbye Doctor Watson.” He whispered.


	5. Matchmaker Mike

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mike gives the boys a much needed push.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over 100 kudos! :O You guys are amazing!

  _John knelt over the body on the side of the dusty road, the heel of his left hand positioned over the breastbone as he pressed rhythmically into Corporal Snow’s chest. “C’mon, Corporal…” John muttered._

_He had breakfast with this man. He had beaten him soundly in a game of poker the previous night. He had a young sub wife and new twins back in Reading. He wasn’t allowed to die. John removed his hands and bent over Snow’s face, pinching his nose and filling his lungs with new breath. He scrabbled back up and put his hands, rust-colored and tight with drying blood, on his chest and resumed pumping._

_The gash in Snow’s skull was leaking blood into the bandage John had hastily taped there and he swore. Bloody meat, that’s what the left side of his scalp was now. John knew instinctively that a head wound like that left little to no chance of a normal life—assuming he survived at all. John licked his lips as his hope faded, tasting bitter grit and the sharp iron tang of blood. Snow’s blood. The dark eyes were blank and focused on nothing and John leaned over to breathe into his mouth one more time. He got three deeps breaths in and pulled away, yelping at Snow’s face. It wasn’t Snow anymore. Dark eyes had been replaced by ice blue. The helmet was replaced with wild dark curls caked in matted blood and John fell back on his arse on the sand-dirt road. The dead face of Sherlock stared up at the azure sky, leaking crimson from his nose and his eyes, staining the ivory skin. “Sherlock.” John panted. “No…no!—”_

 --John opened his eyes, sucking a huge wave of air into his lungs as he scrambled up to a sitting position. His heart was banging in his chest like bullets being fired from a machine gun. He blinked a few times and licked his lips, his head spinning with the unyielding force of delayed adrenaline and fear flooding his veins from the nightmare.

“Jesus…” he flopped back down into the pillows and mentally cataloged his surroundings. His bedsit. Nighttime. It was quiet—silent, really. This was a quiet part of town. No threats. He took a few calming breaths and sat up again, slowly, rubbing his hands over his face. That had been…vivid. He stood up and grabbed his cane in one hand and his Sig in the other. He went to the front door, checking the lock again. Still bolted tight. He shuffled to the opposite end of the room and peered through the constantly closed drapes. The yellow streetlight flooded the pavement. A fox trotted by, melting into the night. John closed them again and went to the kitchen and drank a glass of water, wondering why the hell he had dreamed about Sherlock Holmes. He hadn’t seen or heard from the sub in three weeks, why was he suddenly appearing dead in his dreams?

Maybe because the last time he’d seen Sherlock he was hurt, so his subconscious decided to injure him even more and throw him in the murky soup of his Afghanistan memories. Sherlock was fine and well and John knew this. He wasn’t dead on the side of a road somewhere, he was in 221. Probably slicing up a tongue or something. John found himself smiling at the image of the manic sub awake at—he looked at the clock—half three in the morning, hunched over a body part like some mad scientist. He put the cup in the sink and went back to the bed, sitting on the edge and picking up his phone. He had the absurd desire to text him, just to make sure he was alright. He dropped the phone on the side table with a clatter, disgusted at himself. Text him? For what? What would he even say? ‘Oh hey, sorry to bother you at three in the bloody morning, but I dreamed you died. Are you okay? Cheers.’ It was utter lunacy. He didn’t even know Sherlock. Annoyed at himself for crushing on this poor unknowing sub like a horny Uni student, John curled up under the blankets and slept soundly for the rest of the night.

* * *

 One thing that John was grateful for was that he found steady employment almost directly after coming back to London. The offer had come from a friend of Harry’s of all people, a source John never thought would ever be useful to his career—save explaining to a patient the dangers of excessive alcohol consumption. Harry knew someone who knew someone who needed a temporary doctor to fill in at a clinic. John had happily obliged and now he felt like a productive member of society again and it was nice to supplement his army pension.

It was on a busy afternoon shift that he saw a tall, lanky figure with dark curly hair and a long dark coat in the waiting room. A sort of leaping lion sensation roared happily in his chest as his brain yelled “Sherlock!” He was about to walk over there when the man turned around. John froze. Not Sherlock. He rolled his eyes and his heart sank, and he was completely humiliated with himself even though no one had any idea what had just stampeded through his brain. _What is wrong with you?_ He chided himself, signing a prescription form absently. _You’re a grown-arse man and Sherlock is clearly not interested in you, otherwise he would have texted when you offered to come by to check his arm again. That was the perfect opportunity and he didn’t take it so just leave it alone._ He passed the prescription to the nurse and manfully went back to his office, his pride stinging.

* * *

 Sherlock was walking into the cafeteria at Bart’s to get a coffee one afternoon. He spotted Molly at a table, sitting and talking with a shorter, blonde man whose face he couldn’t see. Sherlock licked his lips, hope zinging through his chest for a moment before he realized that, no—the haircut was all wrong and the shoulders far too big. Not John. Idiot! He jammed coins into the vending machine and took the coffee, storming back to the morgue.

* * *

 John was doing so well during the course of his shift the next Tuesday, not thinking of Sherlock at all until his last patient came in, a dom woman with the surname ‘Holmes.’ She’d been feeling peaky for a few weeks and when John asked her when she’d last dommed, she’d startled and told him she hadn’t for a couple months. He had sighed to himself and launched into his lecture about the importance of the ‘DS chemical cocktail’ (as he termed it) that dominants and submissives needed regularly in order to be at their healthiest.

“I thought that was just a myth.” She told him. “New age bollocks like yoga and hot rock energy.”

He wasn’t sure what hot rock energy was, but he was happy to attempt to change her opinion on the necessity of using her dynamic regularly. “Think of it like food. Just like a body will become malnourished without proper food and vitamins, so your quality of life will suffer if you ignore the needs of your orientation. Go to the chemist’s and buy a bottle of Domall.” He said, quoting a popular brand of dom-specific compounds. “Follow the instructions on the package and if you don’t feel better in a fortnight, call.”

“Huh.” She shrugged. “Alright.” She gathered her things and left and forty minutes later, John was in his bedsit. He should follow his own advice, he reasoned, watching the news and eating a reheated leftover curry. He took his Equivo dutifully when he was in Afghanistan, as he wanted to be at the top of his game as much as possible, but since coming back to London he’d been taking his pills sporadically at best, reasoning ‘what was the point?’

He finished his food and brought the plate to the sink, popping one of the blue pills and downing it with a swig of whiskey. There. The alcohol warmed his throat and burned his tongue and he thought of Sherlock, the submissive on his knees, a dark leather collar on his throat. He rested his hand on his crotch, his cock stirring under his jeans. Fuck. John took another gulp of whiskey. He had to stop this. Sherlock wasn’t interested and had told him as such. It wasn’t fair to keep doing this to himself. His dick stiffened, hopeful and egged on by the thoughts of the sub. And now he was horny.

Dammit. John went to the loo and flipped on the light. He unfastened and unzipped, shoving his clothes down to his knees. He squirted some lotion into his palm and gently fisted his cock, twisting over the shaft just the way he liked. He loved sex. Hell, what bloke didn’t? He was a bisexual switch and he’d had partners all over the world. He hadn’t earned the name “Three Continents Watson” for nothing. He made a rule in the army that he’d only play with other medics, as fraternizing with subordinates or superiors wasn’t allowed. Sure, people did it, but he’d seen firsthand what kind of damage that could do to morale. When he had furlough too, he’d usually bed a dom or sub in the local town, sometimes indulging both of his dynamics on the same night. People loved his sweet smile and were always pleasantly surprised at the sight of his cock. Male switches typically had bigger genitals and John was no exception.

That had been years ago though, and he no longer had the desire or energy to pull doms and subs all night. He was looking for something a little more real now. Permanent. To settle. He bit his lip and rested his free hand on the cool wall above the toilet, widening his feet as he rubbed and stroked and squeezed. Sweat broke over his neck and his heart rate bounced up. Sherlock. The tension pooling in his hips gathered and tightened and a few more sticky strokes had him coming into the toilet in a burst of pleasure. He stood there for a few moments, his hand clammy on the wall as the post-orgasm satisfaction buzzed through his body. He leaned up straight and grabbed a tissue, wiping the lotion off himself and only wincing a little bit at the sensitivity. He tossed the tissue into the water and tucked himself back in his pants, then flushed and washed his hands. He stepped out his jeans, heading back out to the bed and falling into it.

* * *

 When John woke up, the morning light was trying to seep through the closed curtains. His eyes were crusty and his mouth tasted like something had died in it. Garlic curry, a hint of whiskey, and teeth that hadn’t been brushed. Why hadn’t he…oh right. Last night’s events had not been one of his better moments and a sudden sensation of pathetic bastard washed over him. He’d come home from work and eaten shite leftovers, then popped his switch pill, drank a bunch of whiskey and jacked off to thoughts of a submissive who didn’t want anything to do with him. Wonderful. Real top-notch doctor behavior. He groaned and got out of bed. He had to see Ella today, and he was definitely not going to mention this.

 That same morning, Sherlock Holmes was striding up the pavement enroute to a crime scene. Lestrade had texted him while he was at Bart’s, and the detective packed up and left, pacing through the busy midday crowds of the city. The day was sunny and cool and the streets were filled with lunch-goers and tourists. He had to sidestep a gaggle of cheerful medical students decked out in hospital scrubs and an image of John swam into his mind’s eye. John, the dom who had wrapped his elbow and bandaged his scraped arm (both feeling much better now). Sherlock scowled and kept walking. All of these sodding feelings bobbed to the surface when he thought of the warm doctor and he hated it. He didn’t know how to begin unraveling the Gordian Knot that was his opinion of John Watson. Despite trying to drown and ignore the bloody sentiment of it all (and failing amazingly), he’d only managed to parse out that the idea of John Watson remaining in his life was not unappealing. That was fact. After that, it got much more nebulous. He had no idea how to react or what the next step could be, since he had never experienced anything like this before. No one, save Seb, ever really paid much attention to him before. He was always the freak. The weirdo. Someone to be avoided. Seb was still too fresh in his mind, and he didn’t want to go faffing around with a new dom who would push him into bed. Doms were bad enough, but military doms? Sherlock made a face and ducked under the police tape and entered the flat complex. He didn’t have time to be mucking around with doms. He had a crime to solve.

 Sherlock knew who the killer was the moment he stepped on the messy scene. A young male dom sprawled dead on the wooden floor. Bloody footprints—men’s, size ten work boots—everywhere. Furniture was overturned. Pillows were ripped and broken glass was thrown across the floor. A brunette woman standing off to the side, away from most of the debris, was sobbing her heart out into a tissue. Freshly graduated barrister, bilingual, blue leather collar, sub. Sherlock spoke to her first. “How did you know him?”

“We were dating.” She said in a croaky voice. “He had just broken up with David, and…” her eyes filled and she dabbed at them, “and we were just…” she started crying harder, “I loved him. He was the one, you know? We would have been married.”

“The one?” Sherlock spoke as if he had a bad taste in his mouth. “Surely you could find anyone to grovel for?”

“Sherlock!” Lestrade growled. The sub sobbed harder and Sherlock turned away from her as Donovan came over, putting her arm around the girl and casting a nasty look at Sherlock.

“What?” He said blankly to Lestrade.

“You don’t say that to people—especially distraught friends of the victim!”

“She was his sub, not his friend.” Sherlock said.

“Mental, that one.” Anderson muttered from Lestrade’s other side. “Not a psychopath at all.”

Sherlock blinked and straightened, mentally pulling his holier-than-thou mask on. The insulting words were familiar, but they still stung every time he heard them. He wasn’t sure what he had said wrong. He saw on a distant level that the female sub was upset, but it was to be expected. Soon she could just find another dom to get fucked by and serve and that would be it, right? Doms were only ever looking for people to play with.

“Find David.” Sherlock said in a haughty tone. He strode for the door. “And unless something really interesting happens, don’t contact me again.” He left the flat, pulling his coat tight around himself and popping the collar. Violence and coercion, that’s how doms did their business. That’s how Seb was around him, and that’s how Seb’s friends were at Uni. Sure, she had seemed upset, genuinely upset, but he could make himself look upset too.

Jealous? A tiny voice inside spoke up, small but loud. That sub’s reaction was genuine and you know it—why would she need to hide it? Obviously she’s not the killer. You want to know what it would be like to experience that because you never have before—

Sherlock growled and waved the little voice away. It was true, and it hurt, so he ignored it.

* * *

 He was pulling his keys out of his pocket when he noticed the familiar figure sitting at one of the tables outside Speedy’s. Mike Stamford raised a hand and stood up. “Sherlock!” His voice was cheery and Sherlock paused.

“Mike.” He said.

“How’s things?” He took a few steps towards him, smiling. “I haven’t heard from you in a while.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, then closed it and looked away self-consciously. He didn’t really want to explain that he couldn’t understand why that sub had been so distraught. “I’m well. Tea?”

“I’d love it.”

Soon Mike was on the sofa with a fine China cup of tea in his hand, watching Sherlock pace frantically back and forth in front of the fireplace.

“Rough day, mate?” He asked, sipping.

“Fine. What? No.” Sherlock shook his head and ruffled his hands through his hair.

“How’s your arm?” Mike asked gently.

“Fine. Fine…” Sherlock paced into the kitchen, then paced back out with his tea in his hand.

“Can I see?” Mike slid over on the sofa, expecting the detective to sit beside him. Instead Sherlock armed his way out of his suit jacket, flung it at the bison head (where it hooked on a horn) and yanked his sleeve back. “See?” He held up his bare arm and plastered a fake smile on his face. The scrape was just a faint red patch on his skin that would fade in time. Sherlock flexed his arm up and down to prove his elbow’s mobility. “Perfect, wonderful, just like new.” He started to pace into the kitchen again—

“John did a good job, eh?” Mike said. Sherlock froze at the name and turned. Mike was grinning. “He always had a soft touch.” Mike marveled at the way Sherlock’s entire body relaxed at the very mention of the doctor’s name. His shoulders sagged and tense muscles around his eyes and mouth went soft. He licked his lips, a flashbulb-brief, wistful look grabbing hold of his features before the mask came back and he sniffed in disdain, grabbing up his tea again.

“Yes, well. It’s to be expected. He’s a doctor.” He sipped the tea and Mike hid a knowing smile, excited. He’s got it bad for John! Wait ‘til I tell Betsy! Mike honestly could not think of a more perfect match for the surly detective. John was everything he needed, and it seemed that Sherlock was everything John needed. Ever since Mike had been at Uni, he’d had a knack for getting friends together. A sixth sense. He’d been a best man six times and had eleven godchildren. Filing that bit of information aside, Mike finished his tea with a smile on his face.

There was a knock downstairs and suddenly a detective inspector was jumping up the steps.

Sherlock almost seemed to be expecting him.

“What’s different?” He said by way of greeting.

“You know how they never leave notes?” He answered. “Well, this one did.”

Sherlock hopped around like a crazy person, yelling about Christmas when Mike cleared his throat.

“Mike—can you let yourself out?” Sherlock slid his coat on. “This is going to be fantastic—not like that boring dead dom case from this morning.”

At that moment, Mike had a burst of inspiration. “Sherlock.” He said. The detective looked at him sharply. “You know how you mentioned to Betsy that an assistant would be useful?”

“Yes. Why?” Sherlock asked.

“And how it would be nice if you actually had a competent assistant?”

“Yes. Why?”

“What about a doctor?”

“You want to come with?” Sherlock was puzzled.

“Of course not. But you need an assistant, and we both know of a perfectly capable medical man who might be interested.”

“Who?”

 _Do I have to write it across your forehead?_ “John.” Mike said.

Sherlock blinked and looked away, fiddling with his gloves. “Do…do you think so?” He peeked up at Mike.

“Call him.” Mike suggested.

* * *

 John was walking home from Ella’s appointment, feeling slightly better about things and debating about stopping to get a coffee, when his phone jangled and vibrated. He pulled it from his pocket and stared at the name on the display. Sherlock. The phone warbled at him again and John thumbed the button, taking a fortifying breath and putting it to his ear.

“Sherlock?”

_“John.”_

“Everything okay?”

_“Yes, um…would you like to meet me at a crime scene?”_

John perked up, even as confusion edged on his mind. “A crime scene? Why? Are you okay?”

_“Yes, of course I’m fine. I’m going to assist the group of incompetence that is our police force and I decided that your presence might possibly be useful in aiding my deductions.”_

John was grinning like a simpering moron by the time Sherlock finished speaking.

“Text me the address.” He said.


	6. Something and Nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys get Mike's hint, but Sherlock is stubborn. Fortunately, so is John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for ASiP (though if you're reading this fic and haven't watched series 1 by now...go check it out).

The case was, frankly, _brilliant._ A serial killer, a footrace through the city, and that diabolical chess game with the little white pills. Sherlock was smiling as he slid out of his coat in 221B and hung it on the door. He caught sight of the clock—half eleven. No matter. It wasn’t too late for food. He was starving. He was always hungry post-case and usually he would eat his weight in whatever was laying around the flat before sleeping it off and spending the next day alone in his mind palace. Tonight though, would be different. A new feature was present tonight, and said new feature followed him into the flat, setting the bag of Chinese food on the counter. Sherlock stood there for a moment, listening to the noises in the kitchen and feeling buzzy and happy with the adrenaline rush that always came from solving a case. _Not just solving a case. Solving a case with John_. Sherlock swallowed. The doctor had been…surprising. A small smile flitted onto his lips. John had not only been an excellent assistant but he hadn’t asked too many stupid questions and by the evening’s end, he’d actually _killed_ a man. For _him._ As John said, “not a very good man.” Sherlock found he was completely fine with the fact that the man in his kitchen pulling a carton of beef lo mein out of the bag had murdered someone not three hours ago. Not just murdered someone, but killed the cabbie to _save him_. A normal person would have turned him over to the police, but of all the names Sherlock had been called over the years, ‘normal’ was never on the list. A few more knots were tied in the Gordian Ball of nebulous feelings that was taking shape in his palace.

“What do you want to drink?” John called from the kitchen.

“Oh, water is fine.” Sherlock rubbed a hand over his hair and went to get plates.

“Are all your cases like this?” John asked, his voice still filled with wonder and joy. He spooned rice onto each dish Sherlock set on the table.

Sherlock smiled. “They don’t usually involve cab drivers with a death wish and a dash over the rooftops.” He paused. “Or someone saving my arse.”

“I stick by what I said.” John stuck a forkful of noodles into his mouth. “He was a bad man and a bloody awful cabbie.”

Sherlock found himself laughing, genuinely laughing with John. Good Christ, when was the last time he’d really laughed at anything? They mutually decided to eat on the sofa, as there were several cultures growing in petri dishes on the kitchen table (John didn’t even make any disgusted faces). They sank into the leather and Sherlock propped his foot up on the edge of the table. John kicked off his shoes and crossed his socked feet on top of a quarterly journal. It was nice, this. Sherlock found he felt completely comfortable around John. He’d never once felt this way around Seb. Never this…relaxed.

They tucked in hungrily, not saying a word until both plates were empty. Sherlock stood up and took John’s dish, piling it on his own before going to the kitchen. “Thank you.” John called.

“Welcome.” Sherlock hummed happily, his sub-side thrilled that he had done something that pleased the dom. He made a face and tried valiantly to ignore that part of himself, even though it was painfully obvious that he was most certainly attracted to John. In a burst of insanity or inspiration, he took down a bottle of scotch and two tumblers and brought them back to the sofa. To his surprise, John had built a fire and was just finishing it off, brushing his hands of sawdust and throwing the smoking match into the flames.

“Didn’t think you would be much of a drinker.” John said, taking a glass and accepting a poured measure.

“When I solve a case this quickly, yes.” _And when someone saves my life…apparently so._

They went back to the sofa, each drinking in silence for a few moments, watching the flickering fire cast the room in glowing crimson gold. The room warmed up and a pleasant heat settled in Sherlock’s throat.

“How’s your arm?” John asked. “Tonight didn’t aggravate it?”

“No. It’s healed, more or less.” Sherlock pulled his sleeve up and John’s hands, cooled by the glass, smoothed over the lingering patch of pink on his arm where the scrape had been. The fire and the alcohol and John’s soothing fingers made everything warmer and cozier and Sherlock had to resist the urge to just curl up and sleep on his lap.

“Much better.” John said.

Sherlock rotated his arm. “See?” He bent his arm to prove it.

“Good.” John kissed the crook of his elbow and Sherlock froze. His lips, soft and hot and damp from the drink warmed the sensitive skin there. If John noticed any of the old cocaine scars under his lips, he said nothing. Sherlock tilted his glass and gulped the rest down, flaming in his esophagus. His brain spun. John kissed him. So? He kissed him on the arm—on his sore spot. It meant nothing. A nursery-rhyme ministration of ‘kissing it better.’ It was token, nothing more. Nothing at all. They were just getting tipsy and that was that. Another soft kiss was pressed to the side of his mouth and Sherlock’s eyes widened, his carefully piled thoughts scattering as if they had been kicked by a rambunctious two year old. He blinked and slid his gaze to John. The doctor’s dark blue eyes were bright in the firelight, focused on him, waiting for a reaction. Sherlock scrambled to gather his strewn thoughts.

How did that feel? That was good. That was nice. It was…pleasant. Tender, even. Sherlock frowned, realizing he had no place to store this new information. He needed to clean a room out a room for John…but until then—Sherlock leaned over and kissed him soundly on the mouth. He could feel the doctor’s surprise at first. His body tensed and his hands stilled, but after a moment he was back in gear. He cupped Sherlock’s neck and returned the kiss, quietly taking control, urged on when Sherlock leaned back against the cushion and pulled him along. John straddled his thighs, cradling Sherlock’s neck and jaw lovingly as he tasted and explored this rude, brilliant man.

Sherlock lifted his hands, then lowered them again, pained. He had no idea where to put them. Seb’s kisses were never like this, never this gentle. He touched John’s knees, but that felt wrong, so he tried sliding them up his jeans-covered thighs. That just felt awkward, so he let them flop to the sofa and internally rolled his eyes. He had zero data to draw on. Seb had certainly never snogged him like this and before that there, well, really hadn’t been anyone else. Embarrassingly enough. Seb’s stupid drunk friends had, occasionally and against his will, pulled him into sloppy kisses after they came back into his dorm room after a long night drinking, but Sherlock hadn’t enjoyed that. Too…wet. Those were the nights he would sleep in the library. No one had ever been interested in him like John was at this moment…this genuine, curious experimental exploration. Sherlock’s hands twitched on the cushions and he hesitantly put his palms to John’s knees again.

For the second time that night, it was John to the rescue. He smiled into the kiss and gently took Sherlock’s wrists, guiding his hands to his own hips before reaching to undo the buttons on the sub’s shirt. Hips, then. Sherlock squeezed, the denim of John’s jeans rough and warm, encouraged when the dom leaned back into the touch. He slid around and groped John’s arse and the doctor made a happy growly sound in his throat, breaking the kiss. “There y’go, love,” his voice was a gruff whisper as he mouthed down Sherlock’s neck, licking and nipping and breathing hot over his chest. It felt exquisite. Sherlock dropped his head back on the cushion, clutching John’s arse and staring at the ceiling, panting as his nipples were found and rubbed over. A huffy noise rasped out of his throat and John palmed his cock, making him gasp.

John hummed into his carotid artery and directed his attention northwards again and Sherlock lifted his head up into one more mouth exploring kiss before they settled, foreheads touching and panting each other’s air in the warm glow of the room. Their breaths were heavy with alcohol and arousal and exhaustion.

“Sherlock.” John breathed.

“Yes?” He smoothed his hands up the doctor’s back.

“That was lovely.”

“It meant nothing.” It sounded like a question, painfully unconvincing even to his own ears.

“If that was nothing, then I can’t wait to see ‘something’.” John smiled.

Sherlock pulled back, blinking languidly. His whole body was a relaxed dead weight and he was surprised to find how _good_ he felt. Satisfied. Content.

“Sleepy?” John was amused.

“Mm-hm.”

“C’mon.” John rose and hoisted him up from the sofa.

“I can sleep there.” He protested.

“No way. This sofa is way too small for a lanky genius like you. You’ll wake up with a crooked back.”

Sherlock grinned, feeling warmed in a way that had nothing to do with the fire or alcohol or the kissing. John thought he was a genius!

“Really?” Sherlock muttered as he was trundled down the hallway.

“Really what?”

“Y’think I’m a genius?”

“Of course you are.” John pushed the door open with his foot and Sherlock fell out of his arms into the bed. “Mmmm…” He snuggled down in the sheets, his unbuttoned shirt flying open. John watched him curl up, his breaths going slow and deep in moments. He felt himself grinning like an idiot as he stood over the bed and watched him sleep. His cock was heavy in his pants and a sort of pooling tingling sensation was circling in his hips. His inner dom was telling him to _take him, claim him, grab his arse and make him yours._ He wanted to, God knew he wanted to, but he wouldn’t even try. He wanted them both to get tested, for one, and also he felt the whole evening would be…cheapened if they just fucked like rabbits. He’d fucked one first dates before and those relationships never lasted that long. If he was going to pursue anything with Sherlock, he had to do it right. He didn’t want to scare him off. He grinned then, realizing that he had just referred to a crime scene as a date.

He went out into the sitting room regretfully and spread out the fire, reducing it to glowing ashes. He could let himself out and take a cab all the way across the city and go back to his own crappy little bedsit alone…or, he looked at the sofa, he could sleep there. Jeez, had they really made out like that? Like, like men dying of thirst engorging at a river. John grabbed a blanket off the chair and a pillow from the floor and dropped to the sofa. They had, and it had been amazing. He had no doubt in his mind that he wanted to take Sherlock on as a sub to at least _try_ and see if it could go anywhere, but what he wanted wasn’t the issue here. No, it was all up to Sherlock. It would be completely reasonable if he didn’t want to take a new dom now and possibly not ever. Not after the rough go of the relationship he’d just had.

He lay back on the soft cushions and pulled the blanket up to his waist, staring at the shadows on the black and ivory wallpaper.

John had no idea what Sherlock’s issues were. Mike had just said he was abused. An old firey anger awoke deep in his soul, the same one that made him shoot the cabbie and the one that sent him to the desert. John very much wanted to hurt Sherlock’s old dom. Hurt him slowly in a way he wouldn’t recover from. That wasn’t the important thing now though—the important thing was to focus on Sherlock and earning his trust.

* * *

 

Sherlock woke up the next morning, blinking at the glow of sunlight on his curtain covered windows. He closed his eyes and sighed into the pillow. When had his bed become so comfortable? So soft. His bones were jelly. It was like he was on a rising cocaine high, but without all the tedious side effects like twitching and sweating. How had he never noticed before just how cozy his bed was? He stretched mightily before collapsing in a doughy boneless heap in the satin soft sheets. He always felt good after a case, but this was better. Not just post-case good and satisfied, but he actually content. What had happened? Something had happened. He frowned, thinking back to last night—

Oh _fuck._

It hit him like a rhinoceros galloping headlong into a brick wall. John. The case. The dead cabbie. Had he and John _really_ snogged on the sofa like a couple of horny adolescents? Had he really made such a fool of himself? Coming off like one of those pitiable subs from the crap daytime shows Mrs. Hudson always had on, pining for their doms in a simpering sighing mess of blatant need. Fucking hell. He threw off the blanket, his happy cocoon ruined, and got to his feet. Ulgh John probably thought this meant they were _something_ now. A bleeding couple. Sherlock drew himself up. The moment John tried to give him an order he was going out the front door on his arse. This was his flat—alone—and no one could tell him what to do. _He_ was in charge. He yanked a dressing gown over his shoulders and swept into the kitchen, ready for a fight, ready for John to be waiting for him. What he did find was slightly anticlimactic and actually rather nice.

A mug of steaming coffee was beside a plate of buttered toast on the counter top. The television was on at a low volume in the other room and John was at the desk, reading the paper. It was a wonderfully domestic, normal thing to wake up to and Sherlock scowled harder, the fight draining out of him somewhat. He didn’t want a dom. _But I’d be willing to try again with John._ The little voice that lived in the vicinity of the Gordian knot of feelings in his chest spoke up, small but insistent. Sherlock wanted to tell it to shut up, but it came out as more of sigh in own head.

“Morning.” John called. “I heard you moving around in there so I made toast for you.”

“I can see that.” Sherlock muttered. He frowned at the toast before grabbing it and taking a bite. It was perfect, of course. Not burned at all and the butter was right up in the corners and everything. He sipped the coffee, sort of hoping it would be foul. Amazing. Hell.

“How are you?” John wandered into the room with his own half full tea mug. He was in his clothes from yesterday, his shirt wrinkled and untucked, his feet bare on the floor and his hair ruffled and adorably unkempt. He poured more water from the kettle in his mug and drank. Sherlock made a face. That couldn’t taste good—it would be watered down at best. “You can get used to anything in the army.” John answered to his disgusted face, taking another sip.

“You’re not in the army anymore.” Sherlock sniffed, sipping.

“No. Now I’m in your flat. I hope you don’t mind me spending the night.” John added.

Sherlock shrugged and turned away. “I don’t care one way or the other.” He ensured his voice was as bitchy as possible.

“Sherlock,” John said, his voice tight, “last night—”

“—was a mistake. I told you it meant nothing. It didn’t then and it doesn’t now.” He didn’t know why he was saying it. Last night had hardly been a mistake. His feelings towards John were as knotted as ever and he needed space to sort them. He didn’t want another dom, but the sub in him soared at John’s voice. John’s name. John’s everything. It was terrifying and overwhelming and wonderful and his chest tightened.

“It didn’t seem like nothing.” John’s voice was cool and Sherlock turned around when he heard the mug shoved onto the counter with a clatter. “Last night was hardly nothing, Sherlock.” He took a few steps into the detective’s space and the sub looked away, taking a few steps back himself. _This is your kitchen!_ He argued with himself, _don’t let a strange dom bully you in your own kitchen!_ It wasn’t just a strange dom though. It was John Watson.

“We both know last night was something.” John had stopped advancing when Sherlock backed into the counter. Still though, Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to make eye contact. If he was honest, he wanted to fall to his knees and nuzzle John’s palm. No!

“Look at this.” John added quietly, earnestly. “Look how we’re both acting. You clearly want to kneel, and I…well.”

“What?” Sherlock snapped, eying the tiled floor. John took a fast breath and decided in a split-second to take the plunge.

“I want to dom you.”

Sherlock laughed humorlessly. “No you don’t.”

“The hell I don’t.” John growled. He advanced again, bracing his hands on the counter edge on either side of Sherlock’s body. They were nearly chest to chest and John looked up at him with a feral expression. Sherlock was tense against the counter, looking down into his eyes. Sherlock was the most maddening, ridiculous sub John had ever come across and if he was smart, he’d be storming out of this flat never to return. And yet…he saw the excitement, the hope in Sherlock’s expressive eyes behind the barely concealed masked emotion.

“Give me—give us a chance.” John said. He licked his lips. “I know you just left a bad dom and if it’s too soon, I get it, but…I think this is worth trying.”

“Duly noted.” Sherlock said in a dry, pained voice. “Now please leave.”

John lifted off the counter and grabbed his jacket, heading for the door. “For what it’s worth, I enjoyed myself last night. Every part of it, not just the bit on the sofa.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything. He stood there in his his dressing gown looking like he was either about to cry or break everything in the flat. John nodded once and left, jogging down the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally they kiss!


	7. Get it Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets encouragement from an unexpected source.

Sherlock stomped into Lestrade’s office two weeks later in a pissy mood. The DI’s office was empty, the rolling chair pushed back. Sherlock scowled at the mess of papers and folders on the desk. A few empty paper coffee cups were in the bin and there wasn’t a full one on the desk. Greg was getting coffee, likely from the little break room down the hall. He walked closer to the desk, seeing nothing that would indicate a new case. Blast. He needed a distraction. He’d solved three simple website cases in two weeks and installed a cabinet in Mrs. Turner’s flat and with every silly clue and turn of the screwdriver, thoughts of The Kiss had been burning hot in the back of his mind. He wanted to scoff and sweep it away, but the evidence was clear: he enjoyed John’s company and he wanted more of it.

He swept out of the office in search of Lestrade.

“Hello, freak.” Sally wandered by. He nodded, a fake smile on his face, and kept going. He found Lestrade alone in the break room. The DI was facing the counter, waiting for the coffee to finish brewing in the pot. Sherlock came up to him and stood directly behind, staring at the back of his head. Lestrade, not knowing he was there, stepped back and let out a squeak.

“Jesus! You startled me!”

“Hello, Lestrade.”

The DI rolled his eyes. “What’s going on?”

“Bored.” Sherlock mumbled.

“You know I’d call you if I had anything.”

Sherlock pulled his coat tighter around his shoulders and crossed his arms.

“Cold?”

“I hate doms.” Sherlock growled.

“Ah.” Greg nodded. As a dom, he took no offense. He knew Sherlock well enough to let his insults pass right by. “Did you…I mean, was it…him?” Greg winced internally at the broken question. He didn’t know much about what had happened with Sherlock’s past. He knew he had a dom, and that dom wasn’t going to win the “best boyfriend ever” award. He didn’t know exactly how far it went but one day, after a crime scene where Sherlock was being especially persnickety and caustic, Greg had seen the detective speaking with a friendly looking, heavy set man who Sherlock had referred to as Mark or Mike or such. Greg didn’t hear what they said, but Sherlock had seemed slightly more relaxed after their conversation. Good. Whoever he was, Greg liked him. The coffee finished and he poured some into a foam cup.

“Seb?” Sherlock asked. “Was that pathetic group of jumbled words supposed to be an inquiry about whether my irritated state was brought on by an appearance of my utter arsehole of a former dom?”

“Yes.” Greg sighed, dumping sugar into the cup.

Sherlock made a face at the thought of Sebastian.

“Or was it that bloke from the case with the cabbie? John—was that his name?” He sipped and promptly burned his tongue. Shit that was hot. He splashed some milk in.

“What?” Sherlock peered up, defensiveness in every line of his body. “What about him?”

“Did something happen with him?”

“Like _what_?”

“I don’t know!” Greg put his hands up in supplication. “You come in here, wound tight as a snare drum and I’m trying to figure out why.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything else.

“C’mon.” Greg strode past, stirring his coffee, and Sherlock followed him back to his office. Greg shut the door.

Sherlock stared at the cluttered surface of the desk, a stormy look on his face.

“I thought you two were together.” Greg added.

“No.” Sherlock made a disgusted face, even as the thought of being with John Watson made his sub soul soar. “Are there any cases?” His voice was dull.

“You know I would text you if there were and if you’re bored—hell, go for a walk. Build a jigsaw puzzle. Chop up a severed finger—that’s off the record by the way.”

Sherlock made a face and was about to something scathing—

“—do something _healthy_ , yeah?” Greg gave him a meaningful look, “something that doesn’t involve needles in your arm?”

Sherlock gulped. “Obviously.” He said.

“Not obvious with you.” Greg sat in his chair. “Cocaine is not an option.” He said firmly. Sherlock’s ears went pink and he looked away.

There was a pause. The vague hum of florescent lights filled the air. People talked in the hallway and shoes _clack-clicked_ as office personnel strode past Lestrade’s door.

“Sherlock, do you need to talk or anything?”

“No.” Sherlock left in a flurry of coat and Greg sighed, watching him go.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes glanced at his gold pocketwatch as his driver pulled up to the curb outside 221. He had time before his meeting to call on his brother. He hadn’t been by the flat in an age and Sherlock would certainly be delighted to see him drop by unannounced. Ha.

He glanced up at the window, not seeing a swishing curtain. He entered with his key and went up the steps, pausing on the landing. No odd smells. No flurry of movement. He opened the door, surprised that Sherlock hadn’t locked it once he realized who was coming, and stood in the doorway. The curtains were closed. The shades in the kitchen were drawn. The telly was off and the fireplace was unlit. The flat was as dark as it could be in midday and there was his brother, in pajamas and a dressing gown, laying sprawled on the carpet as if he had passed out in a faint.

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“Go away.” Sherlock mumbled.

“To what do we owe this behavior?” Mycroft asked. “Not enough dead people in the city for you today?” He stepped over a flung out arm and pushed a curtain open.

Sherlock swore and rolled away from the light, covering his face and curling into a ball. He tugged his red dressing gown tight and Mycroft glanced over his brother, at the fresh rope marks on his bare ankles.

“Tying yourself up again?” He said. “Goodness you are bored.”

“Fuck off.”

“Better than cocaine I suppose. Whatever _rush_ it is that you get from being immobile.”

“Go. Away.”

Silence.

“Sherlock.” Mycroft said.

“Go away y’prat.” He mumbled.

Mycroft took a fortifying breath. “Be reasonable. It’s a fine day.”

“For what?”

“Not acting like a child. Get up!”

“This is my flat and I’ll lay on my floor if I want to.” Sherlock flailed his hand back, trying to hit his brother. He succeeded in smacking his shin.

“Oh for God’s sake.” Mycroft opened the other curtain and then went into the kitchen, lifting the shade. Sherlock lay there, listening to him pour something from the tap before he walked back into the room.

A cup of ice cold water was dumped over Sherlock’s body and he gasped.

“You bastard!” He leaped to his feet.

“There we are,” Mycroft put the cup down and gave his little brother a fake smile, “back with the living.” He sniffed daintily and grimaced. “You still smell of submissive. You should bathe.”

“Ulgh—what the _hell_ do you want?!” Sherlock tore out of his soaked gown and flung it at the sofa before storming down the hallway to the bedroom.

“Just seeing how you were.” Mycroft strolled down the hall, twirling his umbrella.

“I was fine before you arrived!” He shouted from the other side of the door. Something banged and Mycroft was pretty sure he had just thrown a shoe. He rolled his eyes at the drama of it all.

Sherlock flung the door open, changed into dry clothes, and swept past his brother.

“Any word from your doctor friend?” Mycroft followed casually into the kitchen.

“Doctor? What doctor?” Sherlock snapped. He threw water into the kettle and slammed it on.

“Your friend the _switch_.” He spoke the word as it was a new flavor on his tongue.

“Stay out of my life.” Sherlock groused.

“I’m only trying to be friendly.”

“No you’re not, you’re trying to stick your giant nose into my business.”

“Not going well then, is it?”

Sherlock didn’t say anything and Mycroft softened. “I know you don’t give a monkey’s about my opinion one way or the other, but if it’s worth anything at all, this Watson fellow is admirably better than the cretin that was Sebastian. Anyone willing to put up with your more unsavory tendencies,” he eyed a tongue in a plastic container with distaste, “is worth at least a shot.”

Sherlock stood up and opened the flat door, pointing at the stairs.

“Fine.” Mycroft strolled out into the stairwell. “Good day, brother.”

Sherlock closed the door.

* * *

The next morning at work, John called in a couple favors and by the end of the day managed to procure a vial of blood contaminated with black plague. He’d thought about it, and decided Sherlock might like it to play with, given how he liked to experiment and apparently collect limbs in towels. He’d appreciate it, right? He nestled the glass vial in a cooler with ice packs and locked it up, then bit his lip and stared at it. Was it too much? It was pretty weird. But then Sherlock was hardly normal. John was suddenly having second thoughts about this whole thing. He pulled his phone out and texted Mike.

_Hey, uh, I got something for Sherlock, as a gift, and I don’t know if it’s too weird. Can I ask your opinion? —JW_

 At his flat, Mike picked up his bleeping phone and read John’s message. He smiled. “Betsy!” He called. She trotted out of the kitchen and peeked over his shoulder, reading the text.

She squeaked. “Oh my God, that’s so bloody cute—what did he get him?”

_Sure._ Mike typed out, murmuring the words aloud as he tapped, _What did you get him? —Mike_

_I called in a couple favors at work & got him a few vials of blood contaminated with black plague. Too much? Be honest. —JW_

_Perfect. —Mike_

 John nodded and opened up the other conversation thread he was sharing with Sherlock.

  _Hey. Free tonight? My shift just ended, can I come over? —JW_

 It was short. Too short? Sherlock didn’t appreciate small talk, so he was hardly going to add a ‘how is it going?’ No, a greeting, and then straight to the point seemed to be the best way. He stared at the message a moment longer. Should he add a smiley face? No, definitely not. He thumbed the ‘send’ key before he could dwell on it any longer and the message shot off. John drummed his fingers on the cooler. It had a been a couple weeks since he’d last heard from Sherlock, but maybe he was just busy. Well, busy or not, that kiss had been one of the best ones of his life, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to give _that_ future up without a fight. If he thought about it, he could still feel Sherlock’s warm lips under his and his broad hands, clammy with sweat from the fire and the alcohol and arousal, squeezing his bum. The breathy little noises he’d made when he’d tongued his nipples. John rolled his eyes. He _really_ wanted this to work…

 …Sherlock peered up from his microscope when his phone chimed. John was across the display. His heart fluttered like a little butterfly in his chest and he picked it up, reading the message. Free tonight? He was. There were no cases on. Why did John want to come over? Maybe he wanted to kiss some more. He typed out:

_Acceptable. —SH_

 And sent it off. He put the phone down and went back to the microscope, a little grin playing at his lips.

Twenty minutes later, John was taking his jacket off in Sherlock’s sitting room, the cooler on the floor by the door. “What’s that?” Sherlock asked, taking his coat and eying the little box. He didn’t have time to hear an answer though, as his phone rang and he lunged for it.

“Sherlock Holmes.” His face lit up at the voice on the other end. “Where, Lestrade?” More talking, then, “be right there.”

He slipped the phone into his pocket and headed for his coat, then threw a guilty glance at John.

“Lestrade. He—there’s a body. Dom. Suspected poisoning.” He paused, shuffling his feet and looking longingly at his coat. “Interested?”

John beamed. “Oh God yes.”

 

 They got back to the flat a few hours later, just as it was starting to rain. The sun had long since set, and John was glad he didn’t have to go in to work until eleven the next morning. It was getting late.

“Jealous doms losing their tempers.” Sherlock growled, satisfied. “Jilted lovers are so stupidly predictable.”

The victim had been the recipient of a rather amorous sub interested in cheating on his own deadbeat partner. That partner had possessed quite a jealous streak, and didn’t like the idea of the victim wearing his sub’s wedding band—hence the poisoning.

Sherlock threw his coat over a chair and strode into the kitchen, hungry. John watched him move, all confidence and grace under that tailored suit and it was damn near impossible to not wrap his fingers in Sherlock’s curls and push him to his knees.

Sherlock put two pieces of bread in the toaster and went to the fridge, opening the door and bending down to grab the butter. John stared at his arse under those fine trousers and when Sherlock rose, butter in hand, he caught John’s eye and smirked. He always felt a little more submissive after a case was solved. He’d long suspected it was the adrenaline boost and surge of confidence that brought his dynamic to the fore. Sure he wanted to sub at other times too, hence the bouts of self-bondage or even just kneeling by himself in contemplation. He’d been doing that sort of thing for years. Seb never indulged him—was never interested in any kind of bondage or foreplay or ‘scenes’. He only wanted fast sex. Sherlock would never ask him anyway. Sex with Seb was best described as ‘meh.’ The post-case submission was part of his ego wanting to show off to a dom. To John Watson, as it so happened tonight.

John stared at his bum, nearly drooling. It was like a ripe peach in those trousers and Sherlock glanced at him over his shoulder. He reached down to scratch his hip, practically groping himself.

_Flirty bastard._ John’s dom side flared. Sherlock was teasing him. _That_ just wouldn’t do. He strode over to him and grabbed the back of his neck, pulling him into a kiss. A collar. He definitely needed a collar. John shivered at the thought. The detective melted into him and John pulled him closer, stroking over his thigh and bum with his free hand. He squeezed and Sherlock hissed, stepping closer to him.

“You like this?” John asked. “You like me grabbing your arse?”

“Yes…”

John patted his backside gently. “D’you like me smacking it?” _Pat, pat._

“You call those smacks?”

John grinned and thwapped him harder.

“Oh, you’re getting there, Doctor.” Sherlock ran his hands up John’s chest and John hit him even harder, the sound popping through the air. Sherlock shivered in delight as the sting was stroked away.

“You like that, love?” The surprise was evident in his voice.

“Yes. Does that _shock_ you, Doctor?”

John laughed. “I don’t think anything does anymore. I’ll give you a proper spanking if you want?” He bit his lip hopefully.

The toaster popped and Sherlock wormed away. John watched with a predatory gaze as he fixed two pieces of toast and offered one to him with a teasing little smile.

“I do, but not now.” Sherlock said.

“Ta.” John took the toast and crunched into it. “Later, then.”

Sherlock eyed the cooler by the door curiously. He had completely forgotten about it. “What’s in there?”

“Oh, just…something.”

“Something?”

“For you.” John conceded, finishing off his snack.

Sherlock frowned at him and picked up the cooler, bringing it to the table. John actually found he was sort of nervous. Was it a good gift? He hoped it hadn’t spoiled. He didn’t think so—they’d only been gone a few hours. Sherlock opened it and extracted one vial, his eyes immediately focusing with interest and surprise as he read the label.

“Black plague?” He blurted, his lips curving into a smile. The light in his teal eyes was positively joyous, and John gave a mental sigh of relief. “You gave me infected blood?”

“Yes. I thought you might want to play with it. _Carefully_ , of course.”

“Yes, yes.” Sherlock held the vial up to the light, grinning devilishly at the dark arterial blood. “How did you get it?”

“I know people.” John said vaguely. “Being a doctor has its perks.”

Sherlock’s grin faded as he lowered the vial, placing it and the others in a test tube rack and putting it in the fridge.

“Thank you.” He said quietly. It was small, and John had seemed to get it with relative ease, but no one had ever given him a more perfect gift. Not since his grandmother had brought them a red furry puppy one year for Christmas when he was very young. Seb certainly hadn’t encouraged his experiments much, getting him expensive tie pins and cuff links instead. He didn’t even wear tie pins. He and Mycroft didn’t usually exchange gifts. He admitted to himself that he was moved with something very close to emotion.

“You’re welcome.” John said quietly, coming up behind him. “I wasn’t sure, but I’m glad you like it.”

The rain picked up outside, a steady soothing _sshhhhhh_ on the tall windows, drowning out all the traffic and city noises, the sound enclosing the flat like a cocoon.

“Sofa?” Sherlock suggested, his voice slightly breathy.

John went. Sherlock followed. John dropped to the center cushion and Sherlock straddled him and their lips crushed in a kiss. John grinned unabashed. This was good. This felt right. He stroked Sherlock’s back, noting immediately that the sub was much more confident that he had been last time they did this. Sherlock cupped the sides of his neck, fighting him for control of the kiss. John snickered to himself. _No way, boy._ He fought back, pushing further into Sherlock’s mouth as he squeezed his bottom. Sherlock relented almost instantly and John broke the kiss.

“Good boy.” He mumbled. Sherlock was staring down at a spot on his shoulder. “Let me undress you?” John asked.

“Yes.” Sherlock nodded and John scrabbled to untuck his finely tailored blue shirt.

_Slow down, soldier._ Yes, he needed to do this slowly, perfectly. He unfastened each button and slipped the expensive fabric off Sherlock’s shoulders and down his arms, revealing all that fair soft flesh. The scent of his submission was getting stronger and John took a deep breath. Sherlock shuddered and John knew he could smell not only his dominance but probably his arousal too. The shirt was pushed to the floor in a puddle and John opened up his dark trousers, slipping that button and unzipping. His cock was getting stiff and John brushed fingertips over the sensitive head.

“J-John…” He whispered.

He guided Sherlock to his feet and pulled his pants and trousers down. He stepped out of them, pushing them aside with his foot, and stood there naked.

“Look at you.” John murmured. Sherlock looked away, a pink flush blooming up his throat. His body was beautiful. He looked like a skinny lanky sod in those suits he wore, but in the flickering firelight John was pleasantly surprised to see there was a fair bit of muscle on him too. He stepped forward and kissed him gently, then grabbed his biceps and pushed him down on the sofa. Sherlock yelped and landed on the pillows, breathing fast, clutching the cushions tight, one leg on the floor and the other bent up on the couch. He stared up at John, his eyes bright and focused and his cock twitching vaguely in interest.

“Roll over.” John murmured.

Sherlock blinked at him.

“Roll over, please, Sherlock.” He infused as much command as possible into the request and Sherlock nodded. He rolled, slowly, and sprawled belly-down on the cushion.

“Gorgeous.” He glanced him over, realizing that his own dick was high at attention. He wanted him. He wanted _all_ of him, but not today. Not yet. He was still trying this out, still trying to earn his trust. John wanted to do it right and not go too fast. He bent one knee, placing it between Sherlock’s warm thighs on the cushion. The sub stiffened and John leaned over his bare back, inhaling the smell of him. He gripped Sherlock’s left forearm, his palm firm on the warm skin, holding him against the sofa. Sherlock’s breaths were fast and steady, every sense attuned to the aroused dom leaning over his back. It was vulnerable as hell for a sub to have a fully clothed, semi-known dom looming over him like this, especially one as horny as John was now. Sherlock didn’t struggle or try to heave him off, and John took that as a good sign.

_Trust._ John thought. _He trusts me enough to do this._

Sherlock tilted his head down into the sofa, his arm limp and his fingers loose under John’s grip as he bared the back of his neck, and John zeroed in on that spot. He licked the patch of skin above his shoulder, tasting a hint of sweat and the sweet smell of _sub._ His dom side roared and he opened his mouth, nibbling the skin there.

Sherlock stiffened, trembling, his breaths getting tense and fast.

“Sh…” John soothed. “You’re amazing, Sherlock.” Another little bite-and-lick. He rubbed his other hand down Sherlock’s waist, palming his warm bare bottom. It was exquisite. Sherlock was a beautiful sub, and John was thrilled he was letting him touch him this way, given his past. Intimate? Very. Dominant? Oh _yes_.

He bit his shoulder harder, resisting the urge to slip his fingers between Sherlock’s cheeks. He settled on gripping a handful of his arse, squeezing as he bit down. He grinned when Sherlock squeaked, shuddering and curling in on himself, and he soothed the sting away with little kitten licks and leaned off of him, patting his bum and releasing his arm.

He stared down at the curled sub on the sofa and rubbed fingers briskly through his short hair. He hadn’t done anything like that since he was at Uni and exploring his previously dormant dom side with his first subby love. John took a few deep breaths, his cock acutely aroused and his dom side roaring in triumph. That was one of the more erotic moments he’d had lately, and it felt good, so good, because it was with Sherlock.

“Alright?” He asked, stroking his boy’s hair.

He nodded.

“C’mon, love. Sit with me?”

Sherlock lifted his head, his eyes bleary. He blinked. “Bedroom?”

“Yes, if you want. Alright.”

Sherlock rolled up into a sitting position, absently rubbing his thigh for a moment, gaining his bearings. He wobbled a bit when he stood.

“Whoa.” John steadied him, and Sherlock buried his face in John’s shoulder—an impressive task considering he was a good five inches taller. “Hey.” John embraced him, “Are you under?”

“I don’t know.” He murmured.

If he was in subspace, that changed things a bit. _Orders. Simplicity._

“Okay, let’s go to your room and lay down. Can you walk?”

“Yes.”

“Good. With me.”

John took him by the hand and brought him to the bed. He pulled back the blankets and Sherlock got in, burrowing under the covers. John sat on the edge of the bed and propped his ankle up on his knee, untying shoelaces. Sherlock reached out to touch his back, rubbing his hand up and down John’s checkered shirt as he pulled off one shoe, then the other and placed them together neatly on the floor. He slid into bed and Sherlock snuggled into his side, pushing his face against his neck and wrapping an arm around his chest. John slid his arm under him and pulled him closer in a half hug. Sherlock draped one leg over John’s and the doctor grinned in the dark. Lightning flashed and Sherlock sighed, content, his warm tea and mint breath tickling humid on his ear and neck. John stroked idly up and down his shoulder, just enjoying the closeness and the living, breathing warmth of being so near another person in bed again. It was nice having a sub in subspace so nearby again. He’d played in the army with some of the other medics or while on furlough, but it had never gotten as far as one of them being in subspace. It wasn’t allowed. There was even medication to prevent it. It would have been dangerous as hell if someone was far under and they came under attack. By his count, it had been at least eight years since he’d had a spacing sub under his watch. Jesus. He took a deep breath, tilting his head and kissing his forehead. Eight years in the army. Goodness.

He closed his eyes, sighing into Sherlock’s curly hair. Outside the rain lashed the windows and thunder rumbled in the clouds. John lay content with his sub cradled in his arms and slept.

 

* * *

Sherlock opened his eyes. The room was pitch black and quiet. The rain had stopped. Judging by John’s steady breathing beside him, he was still asleep. The doctor’s arm was around his shoulders, strong and protective, and Sherlock glanced up at his face and saw nothing but dark and the faint outline of his hair in the very dim light coming from down the hall. Carefully, he pulled away from John, easing his arm to the mattress. He tiptoed to his wardrobe and pulled a dressing gown off the hanger. He wrapped it around his nude body, shivering when the cool silk-cotton settled on his skin. He slipped out of the room on silent feet and closed the door behind, relaxing only once he was in the hall. He’d had lots of practice extracting himself from a dom’s bed. Seb often dragged him to sleep with him, only for Sherlock to slink off later and head for the corner of the kitchen where he kept his experiments. Seb hated him experimenting, and the dead of night was the perfect time to tend them without the man’s rude commentary.

He found his phone in his clothes, heaped on the floor by the sofa where John had undressed him. 3:06 am. He made himself a cup of tea and ambled over to the desk, opening his Mac and and bringing up the file he’d been keeping since he’d started subbing for Seb. In cretinous terms, it was a journal. Several megabytes containing data, hypotheses, results, experiments and the like all pertaining to his time actively spent as a sub. Documents delineating the chemical formulas of oxytocin and serotonin and articles on pleasure-pain response were in one section, experiments and blood sample results describing how much his hormone levels fluctuated in response to Seb’s ministrations were in another, along with graphs showing average hormonal response in subs of both genders and of various ethnicities and ages. Charts and graphs were in another folder, and his own personal observation journal was in the last one. Sherlock opened this and sipped his sweetened tea. He began typing.

 

_21 April_

_It is entirely possible that I edged on the fringes of subspace approximately 4-5 hours ago._

_Symptoms : Highly attuned to John (Switch. Currently Dom. Experienced. Male. Aged apprx 40). Difficult to focus on extraneous detail save dom’s contact on left forearm and trapezius and splenius capitis areas (hand and teeth/tongue, respectively). Thoughts ‘fuzzy’ and lethargic. A strong sense of tranquility. Coordination issues._

_ Location: Sofa in sitting room. Subject was naked, dom fully clothed._

_Suspect high levels of oxytocin and serotonin released in bloodstream during our session on the sofa. Subject did not achieve full erection. Dominant did. Unfortunately, subject did not have the presence of mind to do a blood test (see ‘Symptoms’ above). Symptoms lessened once dom broke contact and physically moved away. Dom expressed concern at subject’s well-being but did not seem overly surprised at subject’s state. Suspect dom has seen this behavior before. Subject and dom retreated to bedroom and maintained contact. Both slept. Doubtful that subject reached REM cycle, though given how easily subject extracted self from dom’s embrace, dom may have achieved said state. It should be restated that subject is generally a light sleeper most likely because of massive brain function and intelligence._

_ Conclusion? Subspace was ‘flirted with’, so to speak, but not fully achieved. Subject will try to retain presence of mind to perform a blood test next time._

 

Next time. There would be next time, right? He nodded to himself and closed the laptop. The knot of feelings didn’t seem so tight anymore. In fact, nothing hurt at all. He contemplated this for a moment, then went to the kitchen to tend his experiments.

 


	8. Courting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John enjoy each other's company, and John confesses a past mistake.

 

For the next few days, John and Sherlock spent most of their time together. John would come over after work shifts and more often than not, spend the night. He didn’t make another attempt at dominance like he had on the sofa so Sherlock’s blood stayed safe in his veins. The detective did have a hell of a time with the infected plague blood though, even freezing some to use later.

Nearly every time John came over he brought with him a bouquet of fingers, a box of ears, a sphygmomanometer. Once a geographic tongue that Sherlock swore he saw change after a night in the fridge, but John assured him was either the tissue dying or his imagination.

Sherlock was hesitant to ask him on cases initially but John always went with and, to Sherlock’s delight, seemed to enjoy them as much as he did. He was even useful. Sherlock began to find that when the doctor wasn’t able to make a case because of a shift at work, he missed him. He actually longed for the man’s presence. He never missed anyone. The last time he’d missed someone was when he was seven and Mycroft went away to boarding school. John, though the gifts and offerings and company were very nice, was being rather physically distant since that naked night on the sofa, and Sherlock was hoping to put more data in his files. The dom seemed to be very interested in sex and he’d hinted at past partners so Sherlock found it odd that John hadn’t asked him to undress again or even undressed himself. They kissed and groped and snogged, and Sherlock was itchy for more data. _Blood test_ , he reminded himself. It was possible he needed to get more blatant. Doms liked when their subs were needy, and John was certainly no exception.

Today Sherlock strolled into the surgery at noon and surprised his delighted doctor by declaring he wanted them both to go to lunch. They popped over to a little cafe up the road and got soup and sandwiches. The day was pleasant and sunny and warm so they sat outside under a wide striped umbrella as they ate.

John bit into his ham on rye as Sherlock detailed an experiment he had growing in the toilet tank in 221B, grinning as he waved his arms, miming having to plunge the toilet. The man was probably certifiably insane, but John found he loved it. Sherlock said and did some of the most bizarre things—he kept _severed fingers_ in a tea towel for hell’s sake. Who the hell kept severed fingers in a tea towel? Or anywhere for that matter. He was hardly better though, feeding Sherlock’s desire for experimentation and giving him gifts that would make Hannibal Lector jealous.

“…So then I had to move it all to the kitchen sink to maintain the conditions and preserve the integrity of the experiment, but then Mrs. Hudson came up a few days later and pulled the plug because she thought it was clogged and it was dry for _hours…”_

John slid his foot forward under the table, nudging it up against Sherlock’s. The detective responded, nudging his toe along the ground until their legs were brushing, the heat between them a bright distraction that was slowly driving John insane.

They finished their food and paid and left, strolling up the pavement back towards the surgery. Sherlock was still talking—this time about an old case—and John slipped his hand into his. The detective faltered and glanced down, blinking at their hands.

“What happened next?” He asked, giving his hand a little squeeze. “In the case?”

“Oh, um…the suspect made it as far as the Thames before I jumped out of the police car and tackled him.”

“Good boy.” John kissed the back of his hand and Sherlock looked away, grinning at the ground and blushing furiously. Oh, domming Sherlock would be fun. John smiled, excited, and wished he was finished with his shift at work.

All too soon they were standing outside his building, lingering hand in hand on the pavement.

“Come over tonight.” Sherlock said.

“Of course. Would you want to try some things?” John asked.

“Like what?” Sherlock licked his lips.

“Some more dom and sub… _stuff._ ” He smiled, trying to look encouraging. “Basics. We’ve been kind of just feeling each other out, but we could do more—kneeling, cuddling, maybe I could give you some orders—”

“—That thing.” Sherlock interrupted. “That thing you did when we were on the sofa.”

John blinked. “Yeah?” His voice was hesitant.

“More like that.” Sherlock said.

“Oh—okay. Yes. Sure.” John couldn’t get the affirmations out fast enough. “You enjoyed that?”

Sherlock smiled slyly. “Didn’t you?”

“Oh God yes.”

“Good. Then I’ll see you later.” He kissed John on the cheek before striding off up the pavement.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock paced back and forth in the sitting room, his mind flying in a thousand directions. Okay. John was coming over tonight—just like he did near every night—and they were going to do some stuff like they did on the sofa. Alright. Yes, that was fine. They’d already done a bit—snogging and the like. That was good. That was…more than good, actually. Sherlock stopped pacing. Everything about John was good. He made him feel…good. He made a face and swept into the kitchen. Why? He knew the scientific reason, of course, _because I have naturally submissive tendencies, my brain receives a much-needed wash of chemical compounds required to keep me functioning at my peak level when I submit to John._ It was similar for doms, he knew from research. Doms also got a sort of chemical high from domming.

He needed— _wanted—_ to submit to John. How? Kneel on the floor. John would like that. But then what? How could he get back to the fringe of that sweet space in his head? The one that made him slow and steady, that made his brain calm and quiet, listening to John and genuinely _wanting_ to do what he said. He rolled his eyes as absolutely no inspiration came to him. Okay, he would think about it logically. How had he submitted in the past to Seb?

 

_“Get on your knees, you little slut. Take my cock.”_

That hadn’t been enjoyable. He wasn’t _against_ kneeling, he just found the thought of it a hell of a lot more enjoyable when it was for John. Sherlock realized he was grinning as he imagined kneeling at John’s feet and he rolled his eyes at his own sentiment. He then went over to his laptop and sat down, brainstorming ideas and reading his charts to see if any inspiration would come to him.

 

* * *

 

 John texted Sherlock once his shift ended, having changed out of his doctor clothes and into a navy blue long sleeved shirt with pearly white buttons and white top-stitching. He was wearing the pair of jeans that did good things for his backside and his usual black jacket and he was standing at his desk in his office, his bag packed in front of him. He sent a quick text.

  _Should I pick up dinner? —JW_

_Chinese. The usual. —SH_

So John called in a take-away order and then directed the cab to the Chinese place up the road from B. He was soon going up the familiar steps with a warm delicious-smelling paper bag in his arms. He’d debated about packing up a few of his toys to bring by, but then figured he’d just wing it. They could talk through some ideas and see where the evening took them.

He paused on the steps, listening. The soft whines of a violin floated down and John looked up at the closed door. He didn’t know that Sherlock liked listening to classical music. Maybe it was for an experiment. He opened the door to the kitchen and set the bag on the table, delighted to see that Sherlock was the one playing. He stood in the sitting room doorway and watched him push the…the wooden sticky bit over the strings. He knew nothing of the violin except that Sherlock playing it was one of the sexiest things he’d ever seen. His sub’s eyes were closed gently as the sweet notes filled the room. It was a slow song, but not melancholy—more like a lullaby. John couldn’t narrow it down any more than that and he wanted to go over there and kiss him hard.

One of Sherlock’s eyes cracked open and he glanced at John, grinning at his dom’s awed face. He finished up the piece with a long slow pull of the bow and set it on the chair.

“Beautiful.” John breathed. They kissed and Sherlock buried his nose in the side of John’s neck, breathing in his warmth and the familiar smell of his shampoo and the bit of cologne he sometimes wore. He felt at peace in these arms and even his brain slowed to a pleasant hum in John’s presence. John found his hunch and hug thing charmingly endearing and he simply held him, enjoying the connection.

“Thank you.”

“How long have you played?”

“Since I was young. Seven or so.”

“You’re very good.”

“Yes.” Sherlock stepped back and went to the kitchen, poking through the bags. John found three plates that didn’t have either food bits or body parts on them and brought two to the table.

“Did you have a good day?” John asked.

“Yes.” Sherlock pulled food cartons out of the bag. “You?”

“Yeah, not bad. Easy shift.” They sat at the cleared kitchen table, each tucking into the rice and noodles. Neither man said much, as John hadn’t even realized how hungry he was until he had food in his mouth. By the way Sherlock was shoveling rice, he felt the same. After they finished, they both brought the plates to the sink. “Sofa?” John suggested. “Let’s clean up later.”

“Good idea, Captain.” ‘Sofa’ had become code for, ‘let’s snog each other stupid’ and Sherlock grinned and they crushed their lips together in a heated kiss, hands groping over each other’s backs and thighs and bums and crotches, managing to stumble into the sitting room.

“Wait, wait.” John came up for air and rested his forehead on Sherlock’s chest. He squeezed his boy’s waist and peered up at him. “If I asked you to undress for me, would you?”

He asked it so sweetly that Sherlock was taken aback. He’d already seen him naked, wasn’t permission implied? “Yes.” Sherlock whispered. He stepped back, slipping his dressing gown off. John watched him toss it on the other chair and tug his Tshirt over his head. Heat started pooling in John’s hips as he watched his boy undress, the pale skin slowly revealing itself layer by layer.

Sherlock’s face heated up. He didn’t know why he was embarrassed all of a sudden about being naked in front of John. Something about the doctor just standing there watching him made his face flame red in a giddy, fun kind of way. He stripped everything off, then tossed his socks aside and stood there naked in front of John, grinning shyly.

“So fucking gorgeous.” The doctor smoothed his hands over the warm soft skin of his hips and pressed some loud tickling kisses to his neck. Sherlock giggled, actually _giggled_ and shied away.

John then started tugging his own shirt out of his waistband. Sherlock watched, curious, as John stripped off his dark shirt and threw it on the sofa before undoing his jeans and stepping out of them and his black pants. Sherlock looked at John’s body, taking in proportion and size ratios in a mathematical kind of way, glancing from head to toe. His arms were toned nicely and he flicked his gaze over the pink scar tissue gnarled on his left shoulder. John’s belly was flat and only a little bit soft and Sherlock’s gaze went lower, then froze.

“It’s like a secret weapon, yeah?” John snickered.

His cock was…well, ‘massive’ was the only word that really encompassed it. It poked out of a nest of blonde-auburn curls, half hard and eager. Sherlock’s own cock jumped at the sight and he wondered if that torpedo could even fit in his arse.

“I’d heard that male switches had larger cocks. Looks like the books were right.” Sherlock stepped forward and took John’s dick, weighing it in his hand. The doctor inhaled sharply and Sherlock grinned, wrapping his fingers around the stiffening shaft. “Nice?” He asked.

“V-very.”

Sherlock let him go, amused. His libido heated up, tingling and sparkling. His own cock twitched again. His body was slow to catch up, but it would get there eventually. Sherlock rested his hand on John’s left shoulder, just above the rough scar tissue lacing through his flesh. That was different. That was interesting, just like the man himself. John went very still and Sherlock glanced at him. “Can I touch?”

“Yes.”

He ran fingers down over the old wound, taking in the faint shine of the burned skin and the wrinkles puckering the scar. Sherlock examined the tissue, his intelligent eyes taking in every tiny fold and crinkle. He leaned down and kissed it gently. John let out a shaky breath as he kissed the wound again. He didn’t like his scar. He didn’t like anyone touching it much. Sherlock touching it was okay though.

John kissed him gently and Sherlock pulled him close. They fell on the sofa John-first and kissed like they were about to be led to the gallows. John bent one leg up between Sherlock’s thighs, pressing against the sub’s hardening cock. Sherlock growled in his throat and John squeezed his nape, very aware of their cocks pushed hot beside each other. He rubbed up and down Sherlock’s long smooth back and eventually they slowed and broke apart. Sherlock rested his head on John’s shoulder, breathing hard and gently grinding up against John’s stiff erection, trying to get himself harder.

“God,” John panted. “Is kissing you always going to be like that?”

Sherlock snuggled into John’s neck. “I hope so.”

“Me too.” He tilted his head and kissed the part of Sherlock’s cheek that he could reach, and settled his hands comfortably on the sub’s back. He could feel him humping slowly against his groin and the heat was delicious. “Did you still want to do some dom and sub stuff tonight?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“What kinds of things do you like?”

Sherlock didn’t tell him about all the research he had done earlier. “I have a riding crop.” He said. “I also would be interested in some, what do they call it, sensation play?”

“Yes, okay…” John nodded. “What about bondage?”

“Mmm. Yes, but not tonight, if that’s okay.”

“It’s perfectly okay. I think I might just explore you for a while, touch you and make you feel good.”

“O-kay.” Sherlock licked his lips.

“Do you have gloves and lubrication?”

“Um, yes?”

“Good. I could have brought some from the office, but I hoped you would have what we needed. Have you ever worn nipple clamps?”

“Once.” Sherlock mumbled.

“Didn’t care for them?”

“I would imagine it’s better with a partner.”

“Oh _yes_ it is. Do you have any toys?”

“Mm, just the crop really. I have some rope. I, I like being tied up. I’ve used my fingers now and then...” He blushed and John found it adorable.

“Before we do anything, I want you to pick a safeword.”

“Why?”

“Because I want you to have one.”

“I won’t need it—you won’t do anything I don’t like.”

John laughed. “You don’t know that.”

Sherlock stared at him. “Like what, then? What would you want to do?”

“Just…pick a word.”

Sherlock sighed, exasperated. “I think we’ll be fine.”

“ _Please_? I don’t want to hurt you in a way you don’t want.”

Sherlock was about to answer him with something cheeky but when he looked in John’s eyes and saw the genuine worry there, he paused, cocking his head in thought. John licked his lips. His brow was furrowed and Sherlock could feel his heartbeat thudding through his whole body. The hands on his back grew clammy. Huh. He _really_ wanted him to pick a word. If it was just a simple request, why did he look so worried? Sherlock studied his face and John rolled his eyes.

“What?” He asked, tightening his hands on Sherlock’s flanks. “That’s your ‘don’t bother me I’m deducing’ face.

Suddenly it dawned on Sherlock.

“You’ve hurt someone.” He murmured. “Without a safeword you’ve gone too far.”

John closed his eyes. “Sherlock…don’t. Just leave it.”

“I’m right, aren’t I? That’s partly why you’ve been giving me so much space. I was abused, yes, but you worried about yourself too.”

John still wouldn’t look at him. He’d gone tense and rigid underneath him and his erection had fled. Sherlock wondered if he should get up, if John was feeling pinned and smothered. The light sexiness had vanished, leaving something moody and low creeping over the conversation. Sherlock started to shift to get up—

“Don’t leave.” John said suddenly. His hands were very still on his back.

“I don’t think you would hurt me, John.” Sherlock said, settling down again. “Not from what I’ve seen so far.”

“Once,” John said in a quiet, ragged voice. “I didn’t give her a safeword. She went to hospital.”

“How long ago?”

“Eleven years.”

“That was ages ago.”

“I was stupid.” John muttered.

“Of course you are.”

The doctor gave him a mild glare and Sherlock grinned. “Did she recover?” He asked.

“Yes.”

“Did she forgive you?”

“Yes.”

“What’s the problem?”

“The problem is that it happened!” John snipped. “I used to be into some unpleasant stuff, Sherlock.”

“Really?” He perked up in interest. “Like what?” When John didn’t say anything, Sherlock tried guessing.

“Blood play? Erotic asphyxiation? Worse? Knives or cutting—blood and semen—deeper down the rabbit hole? Anthropophagy? Oculolinctus?”

“No—!” John stopped him, laughing a little bit. “No—I don’t even know what those last two are.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to—

“—Don’t tell me, ta. No,” his voice got quiet. “It was some blood play and cutting. Some asphyxiation. Some whipping—pretty hard whipping. It was all legal though. I was a member of some certain clubs that catered to…specific tastes…but not anymore. Not for a long, long time.”

“Okay.” Sherlock rested his cheek on John’s chest and sighed, peaceful and happy.

“You don’t mind?”

“Not in the least.” Sherlock took a deep breath and enjoyed the little buzz of pleasure in his brain. His dom was here and he was happy but John was still tense underneath him. His heartbeat was fast and pounding in his ear. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“If it helps,” he began, “I once poisoned one of Sebastian’s stupid dominant friends.”

“Wh—really? Why?”

“He was being an arse. He tried to force himself on me. I pushed him away and he was unhappy. He spread silly rumors about me. So I spiked his water bottle one day.”

“Did he _die_?!”

“No.” Sherlock scoffed. “He had a long, bad night in the toilet though.”

John laughed.

“Alright?” Sherlock looked up at him, glad to see him smiling. “You won’t hurt me, John. And though I have no doubt you can subdue a large man in seconds, if you attempt to do anything to me that I explicitly don’t want, you’ll regret it.”

“Understood.” John said with a fond gleam in his eye.

“And while you may be able to _possibly_ physically subdue me—ambitious as that endeavor would be—my brother is a whole other matter.” Sherlock suppressed a shudder. He _did not_ want to think about Mycroft while he was naked on top of John, thanks very much. He pushed the thought away and gave his dom a sly grin. “Enough about that though, there’s plenty of ways I _would_ like to be hurt.”

“Hmmm.” John rubbed up and down his back and grabbed two palmfuls of arse. “I can see that, love. You own your own crop and frankly this arse was made for smacking.”

Sherlock giggled and scooted down, lapping his tongue over John’s nipple.

“Oh, ffff…” John squeezed his cheeks harder and pulled them apart. Sherlock nibbled the nub of skin and then looked up at John with a shit-eating smile. “If you _want_ it to hurt,” John said, “then don’t let a word stop you. I would never want to deny you the _good_ pain.”

Sherlock was familiar with the good pain. He experienced it every time he did coke. The sweet crazy high was bliss and the crash of it made his brain flash and throb. He didn’t think John was talking about _that_ kind of pain.

“What’s the word?” Sherlock asked.

“You choose.” He said firmly. “Something simple you’ll remember that you’re not likely to shout in the middle of a scene.”

Sherlock paused, thinking, then—“dichlorodiphenyltrichloroethane.”

John blinked, stupefied into silence for a moment. “What is that?”

“It’s also commonly known at DDT—an insecticide. Defined as ‘moderately poisonous’ to humans by the World Health Organization.”

“Fun fact of the day,” John managed, “but maybe…something a little shorter? How about just, like a noun? A simple noun, everyday common noun. I just don’t want you to forget.”

“ _Common._ Fine. Stradivarius.”

“Perfect.” John tried not to smirk. That had been unexpectedly endearing as hell. _Oh Sherlock…_ “C’mon. Get up and let me touch you.”

“You are touching me.”

“You know what I mean.” John gave his bottom a pat. Sherlock grinned and hopped to his feet.

“Do you want to use clamps tonight? I promise they’re better with a partner.” John winked.

“I…would like to try. I don’t have any though.”

“What about clothes pins?” John asked.

“No, but Mrs. Hudson will.”

They both stared at other, then burst into giggles.

“How loud would she shriek if I went down there starkers?” John chuckled.

“It would be something to tell Mrs. Turner at any rate.”

They laughed until John composed himself, clearing his throat and looking into Sherlock’s eyes.

“Kneel until I get back.”

Sherlock stared at him and John dropped a pillow to the floor, pointing at it in a wordless command as he smirked at his sub. John’s ‘Dom face’, Sherlock was coming to call it. The sub licked his lips, looked down at the flag pillow, then dropped to his knees and settled on his heels. He looked up at him boldly with a wild hint of mischief in his eyes and John watched him with crossed arms. _You’re going to be trouble,_ John thought to himself. _And I can’t wait._

“You look fantastic on your knees. Even better than I imagined.” John leaned forward and kissed his forehead.

“You imagined me on my knees?” Sherlock asked. He grinned and John shook his head in amusement. No one naked on their knees should sound that smug. “Go get the clothes pins!” Sherlock declared.

“Oh, giving me orders now? You _are_ cheeky.” John pulled Sherlock’s long dressing gown on, tying it tight before trotting down the steps. He made sure he was totally covered and knocked politely on Mrs. Hudson’s door.

“Oh, hello John.” She said.

“Hello Mrs. H, sorry to bother you. Do you by chance have any clothes pins Sherlock could borrow?”

“Certainly, dear.”

John stood outside the door and watched her retreat into her kitchen and open a drawer, grabbing out a bag of wooden ones. “How many?”

“Two.”

She handed two over. “What’s he doing up there?”

“Some experiment.” John rolled his eyes. “I didn’t ask too many questions.”

“With him it’s best not to sometimes, dear.”

They both shared a laugh and Mrs. Hudson watched him disappear up the steps.

“Experiment my foot, John Watson.” She muttered, closing the door. “You two aren’t the only ones who have engineered clamps from everyday objects.” She tossed the bag back in the drawer and went back to the telly and her knitting needles, counting out stitches on the powder blue yarn.

 

“Did she suspect?” Sherlock asked as John bounded back into view.

“Don’t think so.” He clicked the pins a few times, admiring Sherlock on his knees, then set them on the coffee table. “Up, please.” He tossed the gown aside.

Sherlock bounced up.

“The safeword always applies, you know. Anytime at all you need to say it, do it.”

“I know, John!”

“Good.” John pulled him forward, leaned down, and sucked his left nipple into his mouth.

“Oh!” The detective grabbed his dom’s shoulders and held on, squirming and hissing as the tender flesh was licked and sucked. John nibbled and he yipped.

“J-John…oh!”

The doctor grinned and slid his tongue over to the other side, laving that one. He squeezed Sherlock’s waist and dipped his hands lower, caressing his bottom with one hand and cupping his crotch with the other as he bit the skin and licked it hard. Sherlock shivered. His cock woke up more. John thumbed his balls and swirled his tongue around the nipple, making Sherlock squeal.

“Beautiful.” John straightened up and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. Sherlock was panting and his nipples were two spots of red on his flushed chest. Perfect. John leaned down and grabbed a pin, opening it and closing it carefully over one rosy nub of skin. Sherlock hissed.

“Alright?” John asked.

“Yes.”

John took the other pin and fastened that to his other nipple, watching Sherlock’s reaction carefully. “How is it?” John asked. “Is the pain sharp?”

“No, just sore. Tight.”

John cupped his cock again and it stiffened a bit more but was still far from a full erection. “This takes a while.” He noted. He stroked it languidly and the sub stepped his feet apart.

“My body always takes longer to catch up. It’s a side effect of my intellect.”

“Mm. Where are the gloves and lube?”

“Uh, gloves in the kitchen. Lube in the loo.”

“Can you wait here for me?”

“Yes.”

“Hands behind your back.”

Sherlock clasped his hands behind as John went off to get the items. The pressure of the pins was zinging through his chest in a not unpleasant way. He looked down, observing the pinched flesh, stretched between the wooden legs. The skin would be sore later. The good sore.

“Here we are.” John returned with the lube and gloves. Sherlock watched as he wriggled his left hand into one and snapped it over his wrist. He flexed his fingers and headed for the sofa. “With me.” He said. Sherlock followed. “How’s your chest?”

“Sore. Pinchy.”

“Hm…” John sank to the cushion, pulling Sherlock down with him. The sub gulped when John settled him over his knee, adjusting him and pulling at him so that his bare arse was right on his lap. “Very nice…settle…” John rubbed his bare hand over his bum and back and Sherlock grabbed the sofa cushion, clutching it to his chest. John’s warm bare thighs under his sensitive cock was nice and he could feel the doctor’s erection pressing into his side. He licked his lips and for some reason felt mildly embarrassed. His bum felt high and nearly obscene over John’s knee.

“Sh, relax.” John’s hand was on his nape. “Take deep breaths.” His voice was commanding and gentle and instead of relaxing, Sherlock found he was getting even more keyed up and aroused. They were _naked_ and John was about to…do what exactly?

“Are you going to spank me?”

“Not now. First, I’m going to explore this beautiful body. Sh…” John picked up the lube and squirted some onto his gloved fingers. He smoothed them through Sherlock’s crack and the sub instantly tensed. “Sh, sh…” John prodded at his hole. Tight as tight could be. “Settle and relax.” He petted long strokes up his back with his free hand, massaging at his shoulders. He prodded again, rubbing the hole, and reached around his hip until he found Sherlock’s cock, completely interested now. “We’re going to loosen you up.” John said. “So that you can take my fingers and my plug whenever I want you to. Because you’re my sub now, Sherlock, and I won’t be able to keep my hands off your lovely body. Nope. All this gorgeous skin and that amazing brain. Such a beautiful sub…” John continued fondling his cock and rubbing at his bum and Sherlock shuddered, humping into his lap. John slipped a finger in.

“There we go. Now you’re relaxing.” John pushed in and out and then slid another finger in. Sherlock panted. Sweat tickled under his arms and a he arched up in pleasure, clenching his arse cheeks. He peered over his shoulder, watching John work.

“Settle.” John pushed him back to the cushion.

“I want to see, John!”

He relented and Sherlock craned his neck again, watching John’s hand on his bum as best he could. “Are we having sex tonight?” He asked.

“No.” John slid in deeper. He found his prostate and curled his fingers.

"Ah-ah, oh... _oh."_

John slid his lubed fingers in and out of Sherlock’s bottom, working his cock as well. He wanted his sub’s body to get used to his touch. Sherlock was a little slower than most to get physically aroused, though by the way he was panting and flushed and craning over his shoulder to see, John had no doubts that he was enjoying this. He added more lube to his fingers and slipped a third one into the hole, stretching it wide. Sherlock hissed and spread his legs, lifting his arse up as best he could. John grinned and pushed all three fingers in deep, then let go of his cock and just sat there, unmoving and still.

Sherlock stayed still for a few moments, then glanced sheepishly over his shoulder with lust blown eyes.

“John?” He asked. He caught a glance of the man’s hand spreading his bum obscenely wide and his face colored.

“Yes?” He said.

“What are you doing?”

“Enjoying my sub’s body.”

Sherlock licked his lips. “Just…like that?”

“Problem?” John wriggled his fingers.

“No.”

“Good boy.” John pulled his fingers out. “You have a healthy prostate at least.” He peeled the glove off and tossed it aside, pleased. Sherlock was hardly prudish. Given his past experiences, John half expected him to be really wary of another dom. He was a little rusty and out of practice maybe, but that was easy to work with.

“Sit up. I’ll unclamp you.”

He managed to get to an upright position and John unpinched the clothes pins and pulled them away. Sherlock hissed at his sore nipples and cupped them with a wince.

“Aw, sore?”

“A good sore.”

John hummed in his throat and idly trailed a finger up his sub’s bare thigh.

“Tell me, Sherlock, where’s your riding crop?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone's interested...I had a specific MF face in mind as John's 'dom face'. It's the top one in this gifset:  
> http://thistie.tumblr.com/post/111712110391/martin-at-ee-bafta-2015
> 
> Anthropophagy — eating human flesh  
> Oculolinctus — licking eyeballs  
> (you really can find everything on google, lol)


	9. We'll Start with the Riding Crop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock really likes his riding crop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is something of a PWP chapter. There IS an actual case coming up though, I promise ;)

 “My crop?” Sherlock repeated slowly.

“Yes. Your riding crop.” His fingers trailed through his sub’s hair, scratching at his scalp and making it very difficult to get a rational thought in. _Dammit, John, how do you keep doing that to me?_

“I know you find it arousing. I’d like to give it to you tonight.”

Of course he loved the crop, always had. It had been an age since he’d had it though. When he was first dating Seb, he indulged his sub now and then, but after they had got back together for the third time the indulgences had dried up. And tempting as it had had been at times, he’d never taken the option of paying someone to smack him. The thought of going back home to Seb after paying a dom at one of those clinics to give him what he wanted wasn’t appealing in the slightest, and if Seb found out, he’d never live it down. He could’ve asked his drug dealer, Lotto. He was a dom and would probably accept the opportunity to whip him in lieu of a cash payment. Stripping naked in his dingy little flat and getting whipped by the flickering blue light of the television while they were both half high on coke was a grim, depressing thought. Mycroft was a dom, but…he never let the rest of _that_ thought pan out.

“You’re thinking very loudly.” John said with a grin. “And I think something else is more interested now too.” John tilted Sherlock’s head down to stare at his own dick. It was fully hard now. Sherlock took a deep breath, his pulse starting to race.

John ran a single fingertip down the stiffening shaft of Sherlock’s penis. “Fetch it for me and I’ll give you what you want.”

The sub stood up, his heart fluttering all over the place. He scurried to the bedroom and grabbed it off a shelf. He squeezed the hard leather handle, the crop light and balanced in his hand. Breathe. He was going to get cropped— _properly_ cropped. He had no doubt that John could deliver a whipping and this would be an excellent opportunity for gathering data for his file. With another breath, he scurried back to John’s side.

“Good boy.” He praised, holding out his hand. Sherlock offered him the handle and John took it with a “thank you.” Sherlock watched him heft the crop, swishing it through the air a few times to get a feel for it. The sight of John holding it was extremely agreeable and more arousing than he would have thought. Deep breaths, that was the key.

“Lovely.” John said. “I’ve always liked the crop myself. How precise it is.” _Swish, swish._ Sherlock gulped. John took a few steps and snapped it against the red chair. Sherlock startled at the _snik!_ noise the leather made. John _thwicked_ the crop at the chair again and once more, Sherlock startled. John grinned. “Oh, this will be fun. Lean forward, put your hands on the mantle.”

Sherlock did, taking a deep breath. His brain was flying, taking in sensations and emotions, cataloging and remembering for his log.

John’s warm hand patted his thigh. “Spread your legs.”

Sherlock stepped his feet apart. His cock hung heavy and sensitive between his thighs and he felt exposed and horny.

“Relax.” John told him, petting broad swipes over his side from hip to shoulder. “Settle.”

Something about John telling him to settle practically forced his brain to do just that. Hell, sometimes Sherlock wished he had that kind of assured, consistent control over himself. Once and a while his brain would run away from him, thinking too fast and too hard. It drove him mad, but John, John could quiet it down. Sherlock knew he would have no trouble fringing at the edges of subspace again. He already felt halfway there.

“Good…settle.” John’s hand fell away and the cool flat tip of the crop came to rest on his left scapula. It tickled as it it trailed over to his other shoulder, then down, grazing over each rib and ghosting across the tops of his bum cheeks, right above his crack. Sherlock licked his lips, closing his eyes as his mind spiraled down and down, the technicolor incandescent lights of power and thought dimming and slowing down to a fuzzy, greyscale hum.

The crop went back up his spine, touching each vertebrae. Sherlock shivered when John paused on his cervical spine. The doctor chuckled in his throat and lifted the crop off, kissing that spot on his neck. Again the crop traveled down, over a buttock and across his thigh, tickling him behind the knee before swooping back up again and grazing down his other leg. Sherlock’s cock was completely hard now, the head glistening and chilled in the air. He was practically panting under John’s hands and his breath caught in his throat when his dom leaned towards his ear.

“What’s your safeword?” He purred.

“Stradivarius.” Sherlock breathed.

“Use it if you need to.” John pulled away and Sherlock braced himself, aroused and eager.

A _snik_ landed just above his scapula and he winced, the sting seeming to electrify every vein and bone. Again John gave him a _snik_ , then another, then another. He patted the crop from shoulder to hip, stimulating the whole area with stinging little smacks of sensation. Sherlock hung his head back and moaned as the crop warmed his back and he sucked in a breath when it began thwacking his bottom. Again it was more of the same little dancing sting-smacks, warming the skin in a warning of what was to come.

“Harder.” He growled, adjusting his hands on the mantle and stepping his feet up and down. To his dismay, the crop fell away. Silence. Sherlock looked up, peering over his shoulder. John was glaring at him with one brow raised. Sherlock gulped at the steely expression on his face. Even though he was naked, the dominance wasn’t diminished in the slightest. His features seemed harder somehow, the lines of his lips firm and his jaw tight. His eyes were dark in the fading light from outside.

“Why did you stop?” Sherlock asked. His voice sounded more desperate than his pride preferred, but he didn’t care at the moment.

John switched the crop to his other hand and walked up to the fireplace. He glanced down, staring at Sherlock’s happy hard cock, before he gripped it in his fist. He grinned when Sherlock gasped and humped into his hand

“Who’s in charge here, Sherlock?”

“You.”

“Why?” He gave his cock a couple of loose tugs.

“Because…because you’re my dom?”

“Damn right. I’m your dom and I’m going to grab your cock or finger your arse or I’m going to hit you with this crop,” he held it up, “when _I_ want to and as hard as _I_ want to. Not as hard as _you_ want it, understand?”

Sherlock closed his eyes. He was being so forceful and dominant. It was hot as hell…yet he thought about protesting, he really did. _Controlling bastard—all doms are._ It was easy to ride this train of thought, he’d been on that route countless times. _But John is different._ The little voice was insistent and Sherlock let it speak. _We’ve gone over this—he’s a sub too, he knows what it’s like._ Sherlock realized then that he actually kind of _liked_ John fighting him for control. It was fun this time because had given him the safeword. He could end it with a single word and John would have to relent. _I’m in control, not him._ The feeling was intoxicating and exciting.

He glanced back at John and the dom stared back, squeezing his cock. Sherlock gave him a sly grin and then caught his eyes in the mirror. “Yes, John.” He said. “I understand.” He wiggled his bum and John snickered. He stepped back again and continued the same stinging light smacks until the entirety of the backs of Sherlock’s thighs were pink and sensitive. John admired his handiwork. Sherlock was trembling, clutching the mantle. Rivulets of sweat trickled down his sides and his hair was damp with it, sticking to his neck in dark coils. He could smell the sub’s arousal and the potent chemical composition of a sub in the throes of his submission. It was a beautiful scent that went right to John’s brain, making him itch to fuck the backside in front of him.

His own cock was drizzling, making his thighs sticky and wet but he held strong. He clutched the crop and stared over his prize, this beautiful man trusting him wholly to not hurt him but to make him soar. _Christ_. John raised the crop high and snapped it across Sherlock’s bum cheek. The detective yelped. His cheeks clenched together but he stayed in place even when John laid down another _snap_ on the other side. Sherlock hissed, hanging his head low as John snapped the crop hard repeatedly down his thighs and across his shoulders. He gingerly folded his arms under his head, resting his face in them as he stuck his butt further back out, silently asking for more. John obliged and changed the angle, whipping the full length of the crop across both cheeks. A tight little squeak burst out of Sherlock’s mouth and he jerked up, arching his back with each snapping blow, stomping one foot hard on the floor. John kept going, smashing the crop over his arse until it was red hot with lines. His breaths were harsh in his mouth and Sherlock was grunting and moaning and squirming delightfully. John finally paused to give them both a moment. He shook out his arm and looked down at the red lines on his bum. The red on pink sure looked painful. Sherlock was trembling and sniffling quietly into his folded arms and his cock looked even harder. Lucky sub.

“Are you doing alright?” John asked.

A frantic nod.

John laid a few light snappy smacks along his inner thighs, _tap-tap-tap-tap-tap_ all the way up and then _snik-snik-snik_ all the way down the other side, delighting in the little shrieking squeal sound Sherlock made into his elbow. He rubbed the leather tip over his balls and his hips jerked in surprise.

He was pretty pink all over by now, splotchy in areas but covered well from neck to knee in enticing little red crop blotches. John nodded in approval and wiped the sweat from his brow. It had been a while, but he was impressed with his own skill after so long. He always did have good aim. He reached up and put his hand on Sherlock’s forehead, pulling his face out of his arms so he was staring right into the mirror. His ice eyes were dark, the teal rimming the black pupil in a fine line. His lips were crimson with arousal and tears were running down his face.

“Look how horny you are.” John glanced over his body with a feral smile on his face. Sherlock watched him in the mirror with wide dark eyes. “You made me so hot, squirming and moaning. Open your mouth.”

Sherlock did, and John placed the crop between his lips.

“You look good with that in your mouth.” He slipped his hand down to Sherlock’s bum and ran his fingers through his crack. “My cock would look even better between those nice pink lips.”

To his surprise, Sherlock nodded frantically.

“Oh,” John smiled. “You want to suck my cock?”

Another nod.

“After I finish cropping you, gorgeous, I’ll let you blow me.” John slipped the crop out of his mouth. Watch yourself take it.” John commanded. Sherlock nodded, watching with wide eyes as John lifted the crop and snapped it against his thigh. The little shock of pleasure-pain burst across his face and John almost came from the sight alone. He fisted his hand in Sherlock’s hair, holding him steady and facing his reflection as he snapped the crop across his back and his thighs a few times. More tears coursed down his face and he jerked his hips at every blow. John loosened his hold in his hair, petting his head again.

“Good. Good boy. Next time we do this, I think you should be plugged, hm?”

Sherlock blinked at him in the mirror.

“Yes, a nice wide plug right here?” John patted his cheeks and Sherlock licked his lips. “You’re already nice and stretched. I have a couple good sized plugs that would make you feel full. And maybe a clamp here next time?” He pinched the tip of his cock and Sherlock yelped, looking at John in amazement before he shuddered and hung his head again, leaning almost bonelessly into his heaped arms. John glanced at the clock. He’d been whipping him for nearly forty minutes. Time to wind down. He repeated the stinging little smacks over his back and bottom and thighs, then grazed the crop up and down over his skin, tickling him with the tip before lifting it off for the last time at his shoulder, just where he’d began. Satisfied, he set the crop on the coffee table and massaged his sub’s nape.

“That was so good. Are you alright, love? Let me see.” He slipped his hand under his chin and tilted Sherlock’s face towards his. His cheeks were damp with tears and his eyes were daubed pink, even as they were still black and wide and glassy. Oh yes, he was in subspace.

He blinked a few times, then straightened. John wiped his thumb across the tears on his face and sat in the red armchair, knees spread.

Sherlock leaned off the mantle and got to his knees before his dom. He opened his mouth and sucked John’s cock in as far as it could go. He couldn’t get him all in his mouth, unfortunately. John was just too big. The dom didn’t seem to mind and Sherlock decided he’d practice this so he could give him this kind of pleasure. John sighed and leaned back in the chair, clenching his arse muscles to gently fuck his sub’s mouth.

“Look at you.” He murmured, reaching down to pet his hair. “Such a good sub, wanting to give me a blow job. I’m very pleased, love.” He petted his dark head and Sherlock sucked harder, kneeling up to get a better angle. “So thoughtful and so good.” John mused. He scratched his scalp and Sherlock whined in his throat, bobbing his head and pressing his tongue along the shaft.

John hissed and humped a little harder into his mouth. “So good…oh fuck yeah, just like that…” He spread his knees further and his balls tightened up. “I’m just about there, love. If you don’t want me to come in your mouth—”

Sherlock pulled off his cock and stared up at him. A string of saliva slopped down his chin. “I find the taste…unpleasant.”

“As do I.” John said with a smile. “Finish me off by hand.”

He wrapped both hands around his cock and jacked him, twisting and jerking.

“Oh…oh…” He fell back on the chair and panted. “Fuck yeah, just like that—! Shit…keep going—oh!” His bum clenched and his cock spasmed and he came all over Sherlock’s big warm hands. Sherlock sat on his heels quietly, wincing as his bottom and thighs sang out in pain. A woozy sort of pleasure washed over him and he blinked a few times, his brain humming with quiet peace. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Subspace. It was back. He was floating again, that easy, lazy meander down the river around his palace. Everything was sunshine and tranquility. His back was aching and the sweat trapped on his thighs and bottom was stinging like mad. Bliss. His cock was still wickedly hard and he hoped John would let him get off too. It would be okay if he didn’t though. He could take care of himself later if he needed to.

John cleared his throat and looked down at his sub, so placid and calm on his knees. “That was excellent.” He said.

“Thanks…” He looked away sheepishly.

“C’mon, let me take care of this for you.” John stood up and pulled Sherlock to his feet. He braced him back against the mantle and wrapped his fist around his eager cock. Sherlock blinked when John sank to his knees.

“John?” He mumbled. He stared down at his dom, then looked blearily around the flat. It was like the world had been tilted very slightly on it’s side. He was seeing the sofa and table and loud wallpaper, but nothing was registering in his brain as being anything familiar. It was bizarre to hear the silence in his own brain, like it had been put in sleep mode.

Fingers tapped his hip and he looked back down. Oh God. John _was_ on his knees, staring up at him. He opened his mouth and took his hard cock into his hot wet mouth. Sherlock gasped and fell back against the mantle. The skin on his back screeched in pain but it only made him feel better. John was blowing him?! Doms didn’t blow their subs. It just didn’t happen—doms…oh…John swirled his tongue over the trembling head of his cock and flicked his tongue at the slit. Sherlock stared down at him as the man sucked and licked, rubbing his tongue over the sensitive shaft. Sherlock’s knees quivered and in a few seconds he was spilling into his dom’s mouth. He humped languidly into the pliant heat, reaching down to grasp John’s hair as every drop hit his tongue.

John stood up and grabbed a tissue, spitting out the mess. Sherlock stared at him in wonder, realizing with a belated sort of embarrassment that he hadn’t shaved down there in a while. John grinned at him. “Blew you silent huh? I’ll have to remember that.”

“John…”

“Yes?”

“That…”

“Hm?”

Sherlock took a shaky breath. _I knew Seb for nearly two decades and once and only once did he satisfy me orally._

Sherlock simply hugged him.

“Come on now.” John pulled back and stared into his face. _Subspace. “_ Let’s have a shower and I’ll rub some lotion on you.”

A nod. John took his hand and lead him to the loo.

“Just stand here for a minute while I get the water going.”

“Okay.”

John adjusted the temperature to something lukewarm, as hot or even warm water would just hurt his boy’s sensitized flesh. They were already nude, so that helped too. “In you go.” He pulled back the curtain and Sherlock obediently stepped into the tub, facing the spray. John got in behind him.

“Too hot?” He asked.

“No.” Sherlock sighed and stretched. The doctor took the bar of soap and lathered it up, then gently smoothed his hands down Sherlock’s arms and chest, getting the semen off. He hissed and put his hands up on the tile when John rubbed the soap over his back.

“I know, it’s sore.” He said. “But after this, I’ll dry you off and put some nice lotion on your sore spots, how’s that sound?”

“Mmmm…” Normal speech seemed to be beyond his grasp (for once) and John took a moment to enjoy the fact that his boy was in subspace and that _he_ had put him there. He squirted some shampoo into his hands and massaged it through the dark curls.

“Oh God, _John._ ” Sherlock wailed and hung his head back, mouth hanging open and moaning softly as strong fingers rubbed his head.

“Sensitive here, are we?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Good to know.”

He washed his hair and massaged his scalp for a while, thoroughly enjoying the little moany noises Sherlock made.

“You took that cropping so well,” John murmured, soaping him. “That was beautiful. I love how much you love it.” He kissed Sherlock’s shoulder and kept talking to him, murmuring sweet nothings. “Turn please.”

He did, and kissed John right on the mouth before hunching and resting his chin on the doctor’s shoulder with a long contented sigh. John grinned and soaped his belly and gently, very gently lathered his dick and balls. “And that blow job was excellent. I’m so glad you wanted to.”

“You too.” He mumbled. “You, you blew me too.”

“Well, that was going to happen regardless.”

Sherlock hummed and John could feel the delicious rumble of his voice in his shoulder. He rinsed him off and turned off the water.

“Alright, come on.” They stepped out of the tub and John dried them both briskly. Already the color on his back was starting to fade. “I have some lotion in my jacket.” He slung the wet towels over the rack. “Can you get it for me?”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock left and came back moments later with the white tube. He lay on the bed and almost purred when John popped the tube cap and smoothed the cream into his sore shoulders and bum and thighs.

“Are you hungry?” John asked. He looked at the clock on the bedside table, realizing he had no idea what time it was. They had eaten the Chinese ages ago now, but something light would be prudent.

“No.”

“We need to eat—just a light snack—and have some water too.”

“Okay. Are you leaving?” Sherlock asked. John opened his mouth to answer—

“Stay.” Sherlock leaned up on an elbow. “Stay here tonight.”

John grinned. “I’d like that. I’ll never leave you alone while you’re spacing, that would just be irresponsible.”

Satisfied, Sherlock flopped back down into the pillows, stretching out like some great spoiled dog.

“Is toast okay?” John asked, capping the lotion and putting it on the side table. “For a snack?”

“S’okay…”

John headed for the kitchen and poured them each a glass of water. He made two pieces of toast and fixed them with butter and jam. That had gone well—very well. He felt confident and happy and he was delighted that Sherlock had not only responded so well to the cropping, but had also been completely accepting of his earlier admission about the safeword. It felt good to clear the air. John didn’t want to screw this up and Sherlock appeared to be fine with his confession.

He came back into the bedroom and set everything on the side table. “Drink the whole glass.” He commanded. Sherlock leaned up and they both scarfed their toast and slurped down the water.

John took the empty glass and set it beside his own on the side table. He slipped under the covers and settled in the comfortable blankets. Sherlock scooted over and fastened himself to John’s side, hugging and holding and breathing warm breaths across his shoulder.

“There you go. Good boy.” John petted his damp hair. “We’ll talk tomorrow, love. Sleep now, just settle and sleep.”


	10. Rules

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a scare, and they have a discussion on discipline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you thank you thank you to all my readers and commenters and kudos-ers...? Ten chapters in! This chapter has spoilers for TBB (modified for the purposes of this fic. Seb does not work at the bank. Sherlock was contacted by someone else).

 

_27 April_

_I am nearly 97% certain that subspace is not a myth. More data is needed to completely prove theory though. Obviously._

_Yesterday evening, 26 April, John (dom) took a riding crop to subject’s nude body. Riding crop is black leather, 68 cm, braided handle to provide enhanced grip, folded flat tip. Dom whipped subject’s flesh, focusing on the posterior body on the areas from shoulder to knee. Dom varied the severity of his strikes, starting soft and building up to heavier blows before the denouement consisted of a repetition of the softer strokes. Whole process lasted apprx one (1) hour._

_Technique was highly effective._

_ Location_ _: Sitting room. Both parties naked. Subject faced fireplace with hands braced on mantle. Dominant stood mostly to subject’s left side. Dominant is left-handed._

_ Symptoms included:_ _Highly attuned to John (dom) & difficult to focus on extraneous detail. Thoughts nearly nonexistent as repeated blows of the crop were highly distracting. Rising pain level made logical thought sluggish. Symptoms of 26 April were highly concurrent with symptoms of 21 April (’sofa incident’). Sensations began light. Tickling. Flat tip of crop grazed uppermost dermal layer, the stimulation of which resulted in subject’s increased pulse, sweat, and arousal. These three (3) factors rose exponentially with a more firm application of the crop. Dom ‘tapped’ crop over subject’s bare body before finally using heavier blows. Subject believes dominant mentally broke session down into phases. _

_Phase I: Attention. Dominant allowed subject to know what areas would be in focus during the whipping._

_Phase II: Sensation. Dominant increased sensation to the areas defined in Phase I._

_Phase III: Consummation. Dominant was landing repeated heavy blows over said warmed areas._

_Dom decided the duration of Phase III and repeated phases in reverse order over subject’s body to complete session._

_Unfortunately, a blood test was not performed. Subject had even less presence of mind than on 21 April, as the mere thought of John (dom) using the riding crop was…exciting._

“What are you doing, love?” John asked, coming up behind him and resting a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock slammed the laptop lid down.

“Nothing.”

John leaned over and took a sip from Sherlock’s tea mug. “I don’t believe that for a second.” He said fondly. “How’s your back?” He gently felt between Sherlock’s shoulder blades.

“Fine. That lotion you put on this morning helped.” He rolled his shoulders slowly. They were tender against his cotton Tshirt, but it felt _good._ His dom had marked him and he would be feeling it all day. The prospect was satisfying.

“Good.” John kissed the top of his head just as Mrs. Hudson came up the steps and through their open door.

“Oh you two!” She gushed. Her arms were laden with a wicker basket containing piles of their clean laundry.

“Mrs. Hudson!” John took the basket from her, mildly indignant. “You don’t need to do our washing. Right Sherlock?”

The detective hummed, typing again at his computer.

“I don’t mind, loves.” She said, sweeping some crumbs off the counter and into her palm before dusting them into the bin. “I was doing a load anyway.”

John glanced down at the basket. His stack of clothes was much shorter than the detective’s pile of pressed and folded dark trousers and some of his less expensive, non-dry clean shirts. A couple pairs of his pants were neatly folded at the top and John took a deep breath, clenching his hand around the rim of wicker. He wasn’t exactly thrilled with the idea of Mrs. Hudson seeing and touching his used underwear. She liked to dote on them though, either through tidying their flat or keeping them in food, and she seemed so very pleased that Sherlock had gotten himself a dom. She didn’t see her own sons very much, and John was reluctant to forbid her from rinsing out his socks—even though she _really_ didn’t need to. He knew when to pick his battles, and this was one he willing to let go.

He also couldn’t help but wonder if one day his stack of clothing would ever match the height of Sherlock’s in the basket. Would his sub want him to bring more of his items around? Right now he had a couple shirt, pants, pajama bottoms, an undershirt and a toothbrush at B. Given how much time they spent together, leaving more things around 221 made sense. Though last night for the first time the pajamas hadn’t been necessary.

“I’ll just, put these away.” John went to the bedroom as Mrs. Hudson made noises at Sherlock about the nose in the toaster oven. John opened the wardrobe and put Sherlock’s trousers away on the shelf. He grabbed a few rolled pairs of socks from the basket and pulled open the sock drawer—all color coded and arranged according to weight and material.

Mrs. Hudson’s raised voice in the kitchen caught his ear. “That bloodstain better come off, young man, other people will want to use this fridge someday too!”

John put the rest of the clothes away, hurrying the basket back to her. He had a shift.

“Here you go, Mrs. H.” John handed her the empty basket.

“Thank you, John. Try to keep him in line, will you?”

“It’s a full time job.” He told her.

At the laptop, Sherlock scowled. Mrs. Hudson laughed and disappeared down the steps.

“I have to go to work soon, love.” He poured himself some coffee.

“Are you coming over after?”

John sipped the brew and grinned into the mug. He hadn’t been to his own flat in days. He should probably stop by to see that it was still standing and the rats hadn’t taken over. It was weird, 221 felt more like home than his own bedsit ever had. Or maybe it was the person occupying it that made it feel like a home.

“I’d like that.” John said. “How would you feel about me spending the night here?”

Sherlock nodded furiously and closed the laptop lid, coming to John and hugging him, hunching and managing to bury his face in his neck.

“Okay then.” John rubbed his hand up and down his arm, hidden under the satiny dressing gown. “Good. We can have more fun tonight, yeah?”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock muttered at his shoulder. He lifted his head and John kissed him sweetly on the lips, his stomach flipping when Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed and he practically melted against him. Dammit he didn’t _want_ to go to work. He wanted to stay home and pamper his genius spoiled sub all day long.

John pulled away from the kiss. “I’ll see you tonight, love. Be good.”

“Am I ever?” Sherlock grinned.

_Sigh._ Stupid work.

* * *

They didn’t have much time to play and explore each other that night, or even over the next couple weeks. A Chinese smuggling ring had come to town under the guise of a circus and everything was a whirlwind of spray paint, crates of books, and clues until John was kidnapped and held hostage, tied to chair in a tunnel with a spear on a sand timer aimed at his chest. Sherlock crouched in the shadows, watching with a terror-gripped heart as John struggled back into consciousness and spoke to Shan. He could very feasibly watch John die tonight, and the sheer wave of terror and anger that filled his soul at that thought made him spring from the shadows and distract the smugglers, giving John enough time to maneuver out of the spear’s path.

The Spider got the spear and Shan escaped, but Sherlock was surprised to find he didn’t really care. He had just seen his dom bleeding and unconscious and tied to a chair, inches from death and for the first time ever, the case wasn’t the first thing on his mind.

“I’m _alright_ , Sherlock.” John said for the twentieth time as they pushed into 221B.

“You were kidnapped by smugglers and nearly killed.” Sherlock snapped. “I’m disinclined to believe you’re ‘alright.’” He threw his coat off and huffed as John went to the loo to take paracetamol and clean the blood off his head.

Sherlock scrubbed a hand through his hair and paced in the sitting room. John had nearly died. The first good thing to come into his life in ages and he damn near loses it in the blink of an eye and a hard jab with a spear. His heart hammered his ribcage and his bones vibrated in tune with it. Tonight could have gone very badly indeed and Sherlock realized to his dismay that he _cared_. A lot. He cared about John and he cared what happened to him. Never ever once had he cared about Seb or anyone the way he cared now about John. At least, not in this capacity. He imagined John being gone—being dead. This whole past few weeks would seem like nothing but a wonderful dream if John had died tonight. He’d wake up again in an empty bed and an empty flat. He’d do coke again and sullenly accept invitations from Mike and Betsy to have dinner. The unassuming doctor had awoken something excited and warm and alive in Sherlock that he never wanted to see extinguished.

He sank down onto his green chair, stricken with grief even though John was fine and very much alive in the loo not thirty feet away. Was this at all how that distraught sub at the crime scene a few weeks ago had felt, seeing her dom dead on the floor? The image of John, dead, tied to a chair with an iron spear piercing his bleeding chest and his dark eyes lifeless and cold made Sherlock pop to his feet again and pace for the loo. Subs didn’t go in Defense the way doms did, but Sherlock felt the overwhelming dark urge to hunt Shan down and kill her slowly and painfully. No one hurt his dom.

“Oh!” John came out just as Sherlock rounded the doorway and they bumped chests. “Sorry, didn’t see you. Sherlock?” John peered up into frantic eyes, shining with tears. “Oh love.” He pulled his sub into a tender hug and Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s warm strong _alive_ body. “What’s wrong?”

“Almost died.” Sherlock managed. His chest got tight and and he pulled John closer, inhaling his scent and sighing.

“But I didn’t die.” John pulled back and looked into Sherlock’s eyes. “Alright? I’m right here.”

“Forever?” Sherlock blurted. Bloody hell, but that had sounded needy and pathetic.

“For as long as you want me.” John said.

And _there_ was another part of it. John was giving him control. John had been giving him complete control this whole time. The safeword insistence, the quiet request that he undress that one night. Even when he wanted tea, he _asked_ Sherlock to make it rather than _demand_ it. It was subtle, but it was something. The Gordian knot of feelings loosened a little more and he squirmed, shoving the tangled thing into a box in his palace.

“Come on. What do you want to do tonight?” John petted his back. “Anything you want.”

“Just, you...”

John took his hand and brought him to the bedroom. They slipped off their shoes and got in bed, Sherlock snuggling into John’s side in the almost-dark of the room. The dull yellow lamps outside made the curtains a sort of murky grey-yellow and created little mountain ranges of bedsheet. He lay there, tense and thinking. Something should happen now, he was sure of it. Something to celebrate the fact that John didn’t die. He could have lost John tonight without ever knowing what really subbing for him would be like. He licked his lips. That couldn’t happen again. He couldn’t miss that experience.

“You alright?” John asked, stroking his hand through Sherlock’s hair.

“I want to keep going.” Sherlock said.

John paused. “Going how?”

“With us.” Sherlock clenched at the sheets, feeling baldly brave and raw.

“Good. I would too.”

They sat in the silence for a moment, John absently stroking Sherlock’s hip in the dark.

“I’m not very sexual, John. I don’t want it as much as most people do.”

“Nothing wrong with that.”

“With you…I could. But with him…When I was with Seb, I didn’t enjoy sexual contact or intimacy. Even before him, it was never a priority for me. He never made it enjoyable or something I wanted to do with him. Sometimes, the rare times I would feel the urge, I took care of it myself. Alone. It was easier that way.” Sherlock said. “I could take care of it and he wouldn’t need to know.”

“You can always say no.” John told him quietly. “I enjoy sex. I like making you feel good but if you didn’t want to, we wouldn’t have to.”

Sherlock snuggled closer, wondering vaguely how the hell he’d gotten so lucky. “Do you sub more often than you dom?”

“Not, well, it all depended on who I’m with and what we’re in the mood for.” John went quiet. He wasn’t sure he wanted to detail past exploits. That could be off-putting.

“Has someone who identified as dominant ever subbed for you?”

Clearly Sherlock was interested.

“Once.” He said. “For the longest time I thought I was a submissive. When I first started getting those feelings in school, there was a dominant girl that I had a crush on.” Sherlock heard the smile in his voice. “She was lovely. I knelt for her in her bedroom on our third day of summer break when we were both fifteen or so. We looked into each other’s eyes. And then she let me look up her skirt.”

Sherlock snickered in his throat.

“For the rest of that summer we, well I’d say ‘played’ but it was really just a lot of me on my knees and her leading me around on a leash and collar, bossing me around and spanking me with a pink hairbrush when I disobeyed. We kissed and touched but didn’t really do much more than that—hell, we didn’t even know what we were doing at all. I was happy though. I had a collar on my neck and I could stare at her arse as she walked in front of me. It wasn’t until I had just started at Uni that I found someone I wanted to dom.” John went quiet, knowing Sherlock didn’t care for long-winded ramblings.

“Mm?” Sherlock stirred against him. “At Uni?”

“He was on my rugby team. He winked at me after practice one day and that was it. It was, well, I wouldn’t say like a switch being flipped. It was more like I found _another_ switch and flipped that. I mean, I was still definitely a sub, but now…I pictured him on his knees in front of me and I couldn’t believe how pleasing that idea was. I had never ever considered or imagined anyone kneeling for me before. I couldn’t help but think of how sweet it would be to bind him and fuck his arse.”

Sherlock snickered again. “And did you?”

“We dated a bit but it didn’t get that far. He was a little too clingy for my tastes and the spark just wasn’t there. He was a fucking great rugby player though. Up until recently I hadn’t even felt at all like domming or subbing. In the war…your mind is elsewhere. You don’t think about your dynamic when you’re getting shelled for weeks. That’s when the pills become necessary.”

Sherlock slipped their hands together and squeezed. “What brought your mind back to domming?”

“You.”

“What about you?” John nudged him and closed his eyes. His head was still hurting.

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. “I’ve always known I was a submissive, I suppose. Mycroft was always clearly a dominant. My father was a sub as well, and though I got along with my mother I always felt closer to him. I didn’t really date much until I met Sebastian at Uni. There were messy moments at boarding school. The dominant boys all wanted a piece of me. The other subs hated me for it.” He laughed and John smiled with him. “If they were getting too close though I would just deduce them.” He shrugged. “No one likes that.”

“Not true.” John said. “The police like it. I like it.”

“Mm. Now maybe, but not then. Seb liked my body more than my brains.” Sherlock said bluntly. “We ended up dating on and off for fifteen years. Then he kicked me out.”

“His mistake.” John kissed his forehead.

“Yeah….” Sherlock cuddled him closer and went quiet. John was sure there was more to that story, but he let it be. “Are you going, I—what about us? Discipline?”

“Tomorrow?” John squeezed his hand. “I want to talk to you about rules and discipline,” he grinned, “but my head feels like something the cat dragged in.”

“Tomorrow.” Sherlock didn’t press him for more, and they snuggled down together to sleep.

* * *

Both men slept in the next morning. The important parts of the case were finished and all that was left was some paperwork that Scotland Yard could deal with. John didn’t have work, and he dragged himself awake at ten am long enough to dash off a text to his therapist, Ella.

 

_Morning Ella. Massive headache. Reschedule? —JW_

_Call me when you feel better. — Dr.E_

_Ta. —JW_

John dropped his phone on the side table and missed. It bounced onto the floor with a loud _thud_ and Sherlock shifted around beside him, humming in his throat and pulling John closer. The doctor ignored the phone and settled on the pillow, watching his boy sleep.

“You’re staring.” Sherlock said, eyes closed.

“So? I’m enjoying the view.”

The side of Sherlock’s mouth went up in a grin and he stretched, rolling over and yawning mightily.

“Hungry?” John asked.

“Mm…” Sherlock hummed.

“Eggs?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Toast?”

“Yes.”

“Sausage? Maybe some fried tomatoes?”

Sherlock smiled. “Delicious.”

“I agree. Go make us some.”

Sherlock snapped his eyes open. John was grinning at him. “Get up. Help me cook.” He sat up and rubbed his temple. His head felt massively better after the pills and good night’s sleep. Yes, he had lied just a bit to Ella, but he deserved to laze around the flat with his sub. And speaking of flats, he really needed to go to his own.

They pulled on clothes and headed for the loo. John shaved and Sherlock scrubbed at his teeth, casting sidelong glances at his dom as he lathered his face and scraped the razor over his skin. It was kind of amazing how fast and easy John slotted into his life. If someone had told Sherlock a few weeks ago that he was going to meet a new dom that made him want to get to his knees and eat from his hand he would have broke a rib laughing. The idea of actually eating out of John’s hand though, wasn’t unappealing. _Hmmm…._

In fact, it was all so amazing that Sherlock wondered how long it would all last. He had nothing to go on. No experiments that could provide data, no hypotheses to test. John was here now, but how long until he got sick of him? How long until the severed limbs and case work got to be just too much? Mycroft always told him his _abnormalities_ would scare off any sensible dom and he was probably right. Mummy was upset her boys weren’t married, but she would never say anything of course.

John caught his gaze in the mirror and winked and Sherlock smiled around his toothbrush before spitting and rinsing in the sink. They made breakfast together. John didn’t know where everything was in the kitchen, and Sherlock gathered items as requested for him to cook. With both of them working on the meal, it was done quickly and they were soon sitting at the desk in the sitting room with cups of coffee and plates of food. John took another headache pill and tucked in hungrily, making happy noises about the eggs and tomatoes.

Sherlock stared at him.

“Why aren’t you eating?” He asked, glancing down at Sherlock’s plate.

“We were going to talk about discipline.” Sherlock said.

“Yes.” John took a bite of food and thought. “I like having rules in my relationships. If those rules are broke, I wouldn’t be lenient with you.” He looked up at Sherlock and put his fork down. “Generally. I understand that the cases are important to you, and when you're on a case, that takes priority. I get that. I'll follow you in and give my medical perspective and cross London in the name of a text if it helps the case, but you need to listen to me too. You push yourself too hard, love. You barely slept during this whole banker case.”

“I slept…”

“You were passed out on a pile of books when I got home from my shift.” John said with a raised brow.

“Asleep.” Sherlock said pointedly. “Lost a whole two hours…”

John rolled his eyes. “You _need_ rest and food. When that engine between your ears runs too fast and hard and hot, when you're in danger of crashing and burning, I'm going to rein you in—case or not."

Sherlock lifted his chin. "I don't do well with a set of rigid rules, John."

"I know. I'm going to give you a long leash where you need it, but you need to listen to me and obey me when I step in.” John looked at him meaningfully. “Failing to do so will mean punishment."

Sherlock pouted, his lips pursing minutely as he thought over what John said. "I don't like rules imposed on me." He grumbled.

"I know‒believe me. You're used to your independence now and Seb didn't give you much room to breathe, did he?"

Sherlock shook his head tightly.

“Yeah. What do you think about this, Sherlock? Is it something you can live with?”

“What are the rules?”

“I need you to trust that I’ll take care of you when you need it. That’ll you’ll trust me to keep you from crashing into the ground. When you’re on a case and you haven’t eaten or slept in a fortnight, I’ll fix that.”

“So no more all nighters?” Sherlock asked, clenching his fists.

“That’s not what I said.” John said in a steady tone. “Like during this last case, for example, I would have let you spend the night poring over the crates, but once I found you passed out asleep, you would be sent to bed with no phone to get at least an hour in.”

“What if I refuse?”

“Excessive arguing and refusal means a punishment will be in order.”

Sherlock crossed his arms moodily.

“The safe word always applies.” John said. “It stops everything. I will never call you names or insult you. For the very worst of offenses, I have a paddle that I’d use on your bare bum. I’ve felt it, and let me tell you, it _hurts_.” He chuckled. “I’ll never use the crop for punishment since you like it so much, and I’ve known plenty of people who don’t like corporal discipline. But with you? I think that option should be on the table.”

“Why?”

John grinned. “Because you’re too intelligent for your own good and you’re wild and naughty. You need to focus during punishment, and a repeated application of paddle to arse _will_ make you focus.”

Sherlock blinked, warmed at John’s mention of his intelligence.

“Like I said, the paddle would only be for the most offensive mistakes. Otherwise I might stand you in the corner or take away privileges. Writing lines. Some bondage. We’ll take it as it comes, but I’ve learned a thing or two about unpleasant tasks from the army.”

“Dull.”

“That’s the point. You don’t enjoy it, so you avoid breaking the rule.”

“Hm…”

“Like I said, think it over. It’s a possibility. It can enhance the dynamic, but both of us have to get something out of it, yeah?”

“Yes.” Sherlock nodded. “There’s no point in doing it if we don’t mutually benefit.”

“Good—excellent. That’s a relief. If you’d be willing, I’d like to explore those things with you, but not all discipline has to come with physical sensations. We could instill something simple like a set of rules for behavior or a curfew for you too.”

Sherlock shifted beside him. “I can’t say with any sincerity that I would respond well to that, John. I’m used to being independent. I’m used to keeping my own hours.”

“Think it over,” John suggested. “We don’t need to decide today. We’re still feeling each other out, you know? We’ll just…one day at a time.” John scooped up some eggs. They had gone cold, but he ate them anyway.

“Acceptable.” Sherlock finally started eating, tucking in like a man starving.


	11. An Interested Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's not the only one looking out for Sherlock's well-being.

Sherlock wandered into the sitting room a few days later, his blue dressing gown half off his shoulder and his mouth set firmly in a pout. There hadn’t been a case in ages! The criminal classes seemed to have found their collective morals, much to his chagrin, and it had been tedious and dull for days. Even Lestrade had nothing for him. He angrily threw his dressing gown higher up his body and crossed his arms. John was sitting on the sofa with the paper, ankle on knee, reading. Sherlock dropped to the other end of the sofa like a sack of flour and curled into a ball.

John didn’t move.

Sherlock sighed loudly and cracked his neck.

John turned the page.

Sherlock stretched his legs out, nudging John’s knee, digging his bare toes under his dom’s thigh for warmth.

When John still didn’t do anything, Sherlock rolled to his feet, took two steps, and swatted the paper out of his hands. That out of the way, he got into John’s lap and curled up, burying his face in his shoulder and hugging him.

“Well, you got my attention.” John stroked his hair. “In the rudest way possible.”

“Bored.”

“Do you…” John rubbed Sherlock’s neck, staring at a spot on the ceiling as he thought, “want to kneel and settle?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“Do you want me to blow you?”

Another shake.

“Do you want to blow me?”

“No.”

“Do you want to clean the flat?”

“No.”

“Do you want a spanking?”

A head shake.

“Do you want to make me tea?”

Sherlock snuggled in closer, playing idly with his dom’s shirt collar.

John knew he would regret what he was about to say, but… “would you want to go find something to experiment on?”

“Like what?” Sherlock lifted his head. Bingo.

“I don’t know—go figure out what direction and speed all the trains run in or…go practice deductions, or figure out how a swallow would maintain airspeed velocity while carrying a coconut.”

Sherlock was looking at him with a perplexed expression and John was sure he didn’t get the reference until, “are you suggesting that coconuts migrate?”

John was delighted.

He managed to drag Sherlock out for a walk in the sunshine. He bought them both coffees in the park and they sat on a bench, watching the passersby. John would pick out the most plain people he could find, daring Sherlock to get their life stories right. Of course, he always did. Not that John could tell when he was wrong, but it was fun anyway.

“Them.” John nodded at a grey-haired man in khakis and a blue shirt standing beside his female sub—a woman in a dark, modest dress with little polka dots all over who was kneeling at his side while they waited for the bus.

“Psh—easy. He’s an accountant in the city. Grew up poor, but is now very wealthy. She teaches primary school, she has two cats, loves to read, and they’ve been together for two years. She’s happy, but he’s not. He’s cheating on her.”

“How the hell could you possibly know he’s cheating?” John sipped his coffee.

“Works in the city, maintains long hours. Look at the lipstick on his shirt. She doesn’t wear lipstick.”

“But she wouldseeit there the same way you did.” John pressed.

“Why would she? She clearly spends most of her time on her knees.”

John looked down at his coffee and fiddled with the cardboard sleeve, a sort of excited thrill darting through his veins. Would Sherlock ever kneel for him outside? _In public_? He really, really hoped so. One day, anyway. The element of ‘public’ appealed to his exhibitionist side and pushed his buttons the way nothing done in the private safety of the bedroom did. John tightened his grip on the paper cup and sipped.

Sherlock tentatively took John’s hand as they strolled, holding it loosely. Unsure. He sipped his coffee, trying his best to hide his face behind the cup. John squeezed his hand laced their fingers and Sherlock stood up a little straighter as they walked. An adorably handsome, dark haired sub walked by. He looked to be in his mid twenties and his red Tshirt was damp with sweat from the rugby game he’d been playing across the park. He glanced at John and winked as he walked by. John smirked and pulled Sherlock’s hand up to kiss the back of it. That sub had been cute, sure. And if John was single and a few years younger he might have ran after him, flirting and trying to convince him to go on a date. Now though—

—Sherlock muttered something to himself about an experiment—

—he had Sherlock at his side and he found, surprisingly, that he didn’t even want to look at the passing sub. He was attractive, but John didn’t care beyond that. What he had now with Sherlock was better than anything he’d had with any passing flings overseas. Already the memory of the brief glimpse of his young face was fading and John looked up at his sub adoringly. Huh. He must be getting old and romantic.

They walked around the park, Sherlock making more deductions about the people and even the vendor selling ice cream (immigrant. Sends money back home to his family. Plays Pinochle every Friday and enjoys cigars). He was halfway through deducing a young couple and their child when he interrupted himself with a delighted laugh. He pushed his coffee into John’s free hand and the dom watched him scurry over to a bush a yank a dead pigeon out into the light.

“You are _not_ bringing that home!” John said.

“But John! It’s only _just_ died! Look.” He held it up by the wing and John grimaced, a disgusted, “oh!” escaping his mouth as he stepped back. Two children kicking around football nearby stopped and watched.

“There’s so much I can do with this!”

Two collared subs and their doms walked by, eying them curiously.

John stared up at the heavens and took a deep breath. They were drawing a bloody crowd. “Okay,” he said in a low voice, “here’s what we’ll do. You can take that back to Baker Street,”

Sherlock beamed,

“—but, any experiments you do have to be done _outside_ in the back.”

“Yes, yes, fine.” Sherlock smiled down at the decaying beast.

“And for God’s sake, wash your hands when we get home and wear gloves when you deal with that thing.” John threw the coffees into a nearby bin, grabbed him by the arm, and dragged him back to the flat.

 

He didn’t see much of Sherlock for the rest of the day, but there were lots of strange sounds coming from outside. John really hoped the pigeon was completely dead when his sub had found it. For the poor bird’s sake. He wandered the flat, tidying up odds and ends and also glancing around at Sherlock’s things. He hadn’t had time to properly investigate the flat and all its weird and unique contents. There was the bison head. A knife jammed in the mantle. A dog paperweight. A board of pinned bugs. John went to the bookshelf. Lots of leatherbound volumes with Latin titles. A few reference guides. A little book on different types of blood spatter. There were a few paperbacks tucked among the references, and their titles made John freeze.

_When Someone you Love has PTSD._

_PTSD: A Guide for Family_

There were a couple more like that and John swallowed hard. He’d never even told him that he had PTSD. Sherlock, the genius, no doubt figured it out. A few pages were marked with sticky notes but John didn’t touch. Sherlock had gotten those books for him? To understand him? He was incredibly touched by the gesture and he had the sudden urge to give his sub a big hug and kiss (though sans pigeon feathers, thanks). He wandered back into the kitchen and started preparing an early dinner for the two of them, aglow with love for his sub. Love? He licked his lips. Did he _love_ Sherlock?

Damn.

It was there: a tiny glowing spark deep down. He did love him. In such a short amount of time he had fallen hard for the younger man. John smiled and opened the fridge to look for dinner. In the blast of cold air his smile faded. Did Sherlock love him? _Idiot, it’s only been a few weeks. How did this happen?_ He took a bag of frozen corn out of the drawer. He’d keep this to himself for now. The feeling was still new and fragile and he wanted to let it percolate in his brain for a while, like trying on a new pair of shoes and wearing them around the house to test the fit.

Also he wanted to try and see if Sherlock loved him back before he admitted it and made a fool of himself.

He had his rescheduled appointment with Ella today, so he wanted to get some food in himself before he left. He made chicken and vegetable soup from scratch and while it was simmering, he headed to the loo to piss. He’d just unzipped when—

_Bang! Bang!_

John jumped.

“What are you doing in there?” Sherlock was outside the door, yelling and pounding.

“I’ll give you two guesses!” John snapped.

“I need your help. Now.”

“With what?”

“I need you stretch out a wing for me.” A bit of feather fluttered under the door.

“Did you bring that germ-ridden thing inside?!”

A pause. Then a quiet, very non-convincing, “no.”

“Take it outside. I’ll meet you.”

Fast footsteps walked away and John shook his head. He cleaned up and washed his hands, grinning as he left.

 

* * *

 

John was knocking on Ella’s door an hour later.

“John, hello.” She opened her door and gestured him into her sleek office with it’s grey rug and papered walls and green fluffy plants meant to liven the place up.

“Hello, Ella.” John sat in a cream colored armchair and she gathered her notebook, sitting across from him.

“No cane?” She noticed.

“No more limp.”

She jotted something in her notes. “What brought that on?”

He shrugged. “A better outlook. Yeah.” He clasped his hands in his lap and stared at her. She was a switch like him. It suited her well in her profession. A dom’s pride might get in the way of opening up to a strange submissive, and a sub could possibly get intimidated by her. As a switch, that wouldn’t happen.

“That’s fantastic, John. The blog’s been helping?”

“I…met someone.” He said. He had never been entirely comfortable with Ella. It wasn’t _her_ , he reasoned. He didn’t share his feelings easily with strangers. Sure, he’d been seeing her since he came back to London, but he could never open up fully. Maybe he just didn’t want to.

“Wonderful.” She smiled. “A dom or sub?”

“He’s a submissive.” John said, a smile coming onto his face as he thought of Sherlock. “He’s brilliant. In every sense.”

“Excellent. That’s really great, John.” More notes scribbled down. “How did you meet?”

“Through a friend.” John said. Ella seemed pleased by him mentioning the word ‘friend’ as well.

“Is he interested in the same kind of play that you are?” She asked.

John clenched his fist. “What d’you mean?” He asked tightly.

“The kinds of play that we talked about.” Ella prompted gently. “The kind you described as ‘the darker stuff.’”

“I’m not into the heavier play anymore,” John clenched his fist and looked away, “not since Afghanistan.”

“Alright.” She wrote some more and he rubbed his thumb over his bent knuckles.

“How’s your blog going?”

John nodded. “Okay. I write up the cases he solves. I’ve spend most of my time with him. Or at the clinic...”

“Do you talk to him about the war?”

“Nope.”

“Do you think you might one day?”

“Maybe.” He shrugged, even as he thought _probably not_.

The session ended after forty minutes. John’s brain felt like hot pulled taffy and he shoved his left hand into his pocket. He _was_ doing better. He could feel it and see it in the way Ella reacted to his answers. He really only had energy right now for a cold beer on the sofa and a football game. Sherlock at his feet wouldn’t be unwelcome either.

John was walking up the road to look for a cab when his phone jangled and vibrated. He pulled it out of his pocket and looked at the display.

_Unavailable_

 He slid it back in his pocket and kept walking. The phone went quiet, then it rang again. John looked again. Same thing on the display. Frowning, he put it back in his pocket and it went silent. He crossed the street and was walking past a petrol station when a young, dark-haired man with a gold collar around his neck flagged him down from his parked car. John stopped walking, confused as the man jogged up to him with his phone to his ear.

“Yes?” John asked.

“Are you John Watson?” He looked as confused as John felt.

John paused, slightly defensive now. “Who wants to know?”

“I have a phone call for you.”

“Who is it?”

“Who is it?” The sub asked into the phone. Then to John, “He won’t say.”

Curious, John took the blue-cased Android and put it to his ear. “Who is this?”

_“Get in the car, Doctor Watson.”_ A smooth, elegant voice spoke to him.

“What car?”

A black town car pulled up to the curb behind him. The windows were all tinted. _“Just get in.”_

“Why should I? Who is this? Did you just hack this bloke’s phone?”

_“Nevermind him. If you have dealings with Sherlock Holmes, then you have dealings with me.”_

John perked at the sound of his sub’s name before the line went dead. He handed the phone back to the sub. “Thanks…”

“What was that?” He looked down at the phone suspiciously. “Who has my number?”

“I know as much as you, mate. Cheers.” John got in the car, supremely confused. A pretty brunette lady was seated on the black leather bench seat, texting on a blackberry. She didn’t look at him and the car wove smoothly back into traffic.

“Hello.” He said.

“Hi.” She didn’t look up.

“I’m John.”

“I know.”

“What’s your name?”

“Uh….Anthea.”

John glanced at her neck. No collar. Sub? Dom? It was impossible to tell. He would tentatively guess ‘sub’ but it was just a hunch. Sherlock certainly would roll his eyes and tell him her life story, and John’s face softened at the thought.

“Where am I going?” He asked.

“I’m afraid I can’t say. You’ll find out soon though. John.” She sounded amused and he looked out the window, stealing himself. It was exciting, in a giddy, odd, dangerous way. The man on the phone had mentioned Sherlock, so he wasn’t too freaked out….though given Sherlock’s line of work, he could have some seriously unsavory people in his past who would like nothing more than kidnap the detective’s dom. He wished he had the gun.

The car pulled up to a posh white building and Anthea popped the door open the moment the car pulled up to the curb. “Come, John.” She didn’t look up from her phone as the doctor got out and followed her inside. A gold plaque beside the doors read ‘Diogenes Club.’ Whatever that was. She lead him down some long silent halls before depositing him in a comfortably furnished office. John looked at the dark wood desk and the large portrait of the Queen on the wall.

Weird, that’s what this was. Very, very weird. John glanced around the space with a soldier’s eye, noting nothing threatening save a metal letter opener on the desk that could possibly be commandeered as a weapon. Again he wished for the gun—he just felt safer with it tucked in the back of his trousers.

The door opened and he whirled around as a tall thin man in a dark three-piece suit strolled in, glancing over a file and not paying a lick of attention to him.

“Excuse me, where am I?” John asked.

“Sit down, John.” His voice was smooth and elegant and still he didn’t look up from the file as he rounded the desk and stood by the chair.

“I’d rather stand.” John growled.

Mycroft looked up from the file, taking in the new dom in his brother’s life for the first time in person. He’d seen him dozens of times over CCTV, going in and out of Sherlock’s flat in the evenings and more recently, going in at night and not coming out until the following morning. The obvious information about him jumped out—doctor. Wounded soldier. Former clarinetist. Military father, drunk sister, etcetera etcetera, but most importantly: a switch—a dom.

“Doctor Watson.” Mycroft smiled. John didn’t smile back and Mycroft remained standing.

“Where am I?” He growled.

“A very exclusive club.”

“Who the hell are you? How do you know Sherlock?” John’s first instinct was that this man was a dom. John’s hunches about this sort of thing were usually correct.

“Certainly he would say I’m his arch enemy, but I assure I’m nothing as dastardly as that.”

“Do people even _have_ arch enemies?” John raised a brow.

“Well I’m certainly not his friend. You’ve met him. How many friends do you think he has?”

Ouch. Maybe this person didn’t know about Mike and Betsy. And Mrs. Hudson who seemed to adore him. And Lestrade…

“So who are you then?” John pressed.

“An interested party.”

“Interested in…?”

“Sherlock’s welfare of course. Subs can be so difficult to manage, being the weaker dynamic and all.”

John stiffened. How did this man know he was domming Sherlock? “Dynamic snob are you? If you knew Sherlock at all you would know that he’s hardly weak.”

The man gave him a prim smile and opened the file. “‘Wounded in action. Honorable discharge,’ it says here.”

John looked at the file, dumbstruck. “Where the hell did you get that?”

“I perused this, didn’t see anything _especially_ untoward.” The man ignored his question and flipped some pages. “You seemed to enjoy subbing while you were abroad,” his turned the page and raised his brows, “though you took on your fair share of dominant burdens as well.”

“Who the _hell_ are you?” John growled. It was already a weird, borderline creepy situation, but the fact that this stranger had his file was unnerving.

“Sherlock Holmes requires a certain touch, Doctor Watson, one that his former dominant was unable to provide. I suspect you’ll grow bored or irritated with him soon enough, but before that inevitably happens, I’m going to offer you a rather large sum of money if you keep me informed of his goings-on.”

“What do you know about his former doms?” John said, ignoring the part about the money for now.

“ _Dom_ , John. In the singular.”

John bristled. “Alright, then, what do you know about Seb?” It occurred to John then that for all he knew, this man could be Seb himself.

“Ah, Sherlock has mentioned him?”

“He was an abusive bastard.”

“Are _you_?” Mycroft asked. He turned another page in the file, scanning words or images John didn’t know. “You’re a member of some clubs that cater to rather particular tastes…tastes that could be termed dangerous in polite society.” He turned another page. “Goodness, this submissive was either very good or very bad, going by the marks.”

“I play safe.” John hissed, trembling with rage. His head was hurting now and he really didn’t appreciate this random person grilling him like a sausage. “I don’t go to those places anymore. People change. _Tastes_ change.” John added. It was like this guy had been talking to Ella, which for all John knew he actually had.

Mycroft tutted and the condescending sound pierced right into John’s chest. “You don’t always play safe.” He said. “This young woman would agree with me. Hospital, _doctor_?”

John clenched his fist and grit his teeth. “That was a mistake.” He muttered. “Sherlock knows about that and he’s fine with it.”

Mycroft snapped the file shut and stepped into John’s space. “But _I’m_ not.” His tone made gooseflesh erupt down John’s back. Mycroft stayed in his space, staring down at him, and the doctor stared right back up, trying to look as challenging as he could. It was difficult. This man wore his dominance as well as his fine bespoke suit and John hadn’t confronted a forceful dom like this in while.

John was in unfamiliar territory and the other man was simply taller than he was. John was used to tall doms. People always thought they could intimidate him by lording over him and John had been forced to learn very fast how to make himself look as big and dominant as possible. He could easily subdue a man twice his size with a couple well placed punches (military training came in handy for that kind of thing) but he knew it wouldn’t come to a fist fight. He had the strong impression that if this man wanted him hurt he would simply make a few phone calls and get him taken away, never to see the light of day again.

“If you _hurt_ him.” Mycroft sneered. There was a barely controlled heat behind his eyes. “I will make the rest of your existence…unpleasant.”

“I won’t hurt him.” John’s voice had dropped half an octave and his blood sizzled in his veins. His breathing increased and his pulse skipped up a few beats. Adrenaline seeped into his arteries and his cock shifted in his jeans. Textbook signs of the first stages of Defense. Mycroft smirked. He was experiencing none of the physical signs the way John was and he stepped back from the doctor, looking amused before he turned his back on him and went to his desk. He sat down and John relaxed.

“Do you want to hit Sherlock like you did these other submissives, Doctor Watson? Do you want to make him bleed?”

“It was a long time ago.” He ground out. “If Sherlock doesn’t want that, then I won’t give it to him—not that this is any of your damned business!” He was shouting by the end, and the man looked up at him. “Is that what his other dom did to him?” John asked in a quiet voice. “Forced him to do things he didn’t want?”

Mycroft’s face took on a pained, concerned look and he consulted a gold watch tucked into a pocket. “I’m afraid I don’t know. Now, what about my offer? I can make you wealthy, John.”

“I don’t want your money.”

“I haven’t named a figure.”

“I’m just not interested.” John stared at him and a soft knock on the door interrupted. Anthea stepped inside the room.

“Until next time, Doctor.” He looked away and Anthea escorted him away.

 

* * *

 

The car dropped him off at Sherlock’s—not that he’d been asked his opinion—and he strode up the steps. He was still riled from the Defense. The adrenaline was fading from his veins but he was still testy and ruffled. He knocked hard on the door.

“Something weird just happened to me.” John said, stepping into 221B after Sherlock opened the door.

“Fascinating.” Sherlock kicked the door closed and pulled him into a kiss-hug, cradling the nape of his neck and humming happily. John kissed him hard and dug his hands into his bum cheeks and Sherlock made a surprised “mph!” noise.

“Do you have an arch enemy?” John asked, breaking the kiss. At this, Sherlock’s expression darkened. He stepped back from John and swore aloud.

“Meddling bastard!” He hissed, and stormed towards the bedroom.

“Who is it?” John followed. “And why does he have my file? Is this someone we should be worried about? Because that file he had is classified information.”

Sherlock didn’t answer, but he came sweeping back down the hall with his phone, stabbing out a harsh text and slamming the ‘send’ key. Moments later, the phone rang.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock put it to his ear. “Leave John alone!”

_Mycroft._

The voice on the other end spoke.

“I don’t need your sodding interference!” Sherlock bellowed. “Do _not_ contact him again!” His thumb banged the ‘end’ button and then he threw the phone at the chair—it missed the cushion and bounced under the desk—and threw himself onto the sofa, curling up and facing away from the room. John stood in the sudden silence and smiled humorlessly at Sherlock’s back.

“Mycroft?” He asked. The name rang a faint bell…

Sherlock grunted.

“Who is Mycroft?”

“My sodding brother.” He hissed, leaping to his feet. “What did he say to you?” He demanded.

“Said he was interested in your welfare.”

Sherlock scowled.

“I thought at first maybe he was a former dom of yours…”

Sherlock jerked his head up, looking at John like he had just said something horrifying and filthy.

“But clearly not.” He added hastily.

“Clearly.”

“Bit of a dynamic snob too, it seemed.”

“You have no idea.” Sherlock grumped. He crossed his arms and stared moodily away.

“I was heading home before he kidnapped me.”

Sherlock looked up. “Stay here tonight.”

John smiled. In the past month he’d probably spent less than a weeks at his bedsit on the east side of London. Every other night had been wonderfully spent here at 221, with Sherlock either in his arms or on a pillow at his knees. His bedsit was officially lonely now, with its crappy furniture and musty smell that never seemed to quite go away.

“I need to get more clothes, then. I keep wearing the same five shirts to work.”

“I’ll go with you.” Sherlock declared. “Then you can come back here and spend the night.”

John couldn’t really find a reason to argue with that, and he certainly didn’t mind spending so much time at 221. He wondered if Sherlock would ask him to move in soon. He practically lived here anyway. That was a big step though, one John didn’t want to broach with him yet. Sherlock valued his independence, that much was obvious, and he might prefer John to have his own space. They hadn’t even been dating for two months but John realized he was ready. If Sherlock asked, he would move no question. Moving in together meant sharing a bed with him every night, which would naturally lead to sex. _Oh God yes_. The thought of pushing into that sweet arse. His cock jerked in his pants, already fueled by the trickles of Defense in Mycroft’s office and he pushed the thought aside. Later. Once they were tested.

“That sounds good.” John said in a throaty voice.

Sherlock pulled his coat off the door as John jogged down the steps before him. The sub looked to make sure he had his wallet and keys, and when he pulled the phone out of his pocket to check for messages, there was a blinking text alert flashing on the screen. Odd. He hadn’t heard it go off. He thumbed the screen and froze when he saw who it was from:

_Ready to come crawling back? I miss u baby. —Sebastian_

His ribs turned to ice. His breath caught in his throat and Sherlock shoved the phone back in his pocket like he had just seen something disgusting. Seb? No, Seb couldn’t be texting him. He had John now—he didn’t want to talk to Seb ever again!

“Love?” John called up the stairs.

“Coming…” He glanced at the text again and pushed the phone down deep in his coat. He would ignore it. Seb would leave him alone if he just ignored it.

 


	12. Toy Box Treat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They take a trip to John's bedsit and a case sparks Sherlock's interest.

John unlocked his bedsit door, nervous for some reason. Sherlock hadn’t been here yet and John never thought the detective would set foot in his meager flat. It had occurred to John once to invite him over, but he’d ultimately decided against it. 221 was so much bigger and nicer. It was closer to the tube, it had Mrs. Hudson and Speedy’s right there, it was closer to his job at the clinic, and best of all? Sherlock. John initially reasoned his bedsit was at least absent of body parts, but that wasn’t necessarily a plus anymore.

He walked in and turned on the light beside the bed. Sherlock strolled in after him and stood in the doorway, glancing around and taking it all in. “Not much, I know.” John told him. He went to the fridge, almost afraid at what he’d find growing in there.

Sherlock peered around. Seb’s text was still fresh in his mind and he kicked it under a rug in his palace. He was not going to think about that. Not now. He hadn’t responded, so Seb would probably stop texting him.

Hopefully.

He glanced around the room some more. Nothing personal on the walls or the shelves. Cheap carpeting, thin mattress, paneling on the walls circa early 80s. It was functional and that was about it. John had taken no steps at all to own the space, save a couple of envelopes on the desk and a wooden box pushed into the corner at the foot of the bed.

“Oh God.” John’s horrified voice from the kitchen, then the sound of things being binned. Sherlock walked across the room and peered out the window. A streetlight and pavement. He wandered over to the wooden box and sat on the bed, staring at it. What could be in there?

“Disgusting.” John came by with a tied off bin bag and left it by the door. “What do you think of it?” He said. He flexed his fingers. “Bit of a dump.”

“It’s not all that bad.” Sherlock said, looking now into the tiny loo off to the side. “Though I can see why you spend much of your time at B.” It was obvious that his own flat was preferable to the doctor.

“I spend a lot of my time at B because of who lives there.” John told him. “Not because of the decor.”

Sherlock blushed and looked away, back towards the box. “What’s this?”

“My toy box.”

Sherlock looked at it now with more interest. He reached out to touch—

“—No.” John said firmly. Sherlock drew his hand away.

“What kinds of toys?”

“Oh the usual.” John sauntered over to him and cupped the back of his neck. Sherlock tilted his head into John’s belly. “A couple plugs. A play collar, you know.”

“Can I see?”

“Nope. No one but me touches that box.” His grip tightened on the back of his neck. “I always know when it’s been touched.”

Sherlock frowned. How would John know when the box had been touched? Was there some sort of compound that he’d rubbed on it that would come off? Some kind of varnish?

“You’re deducing how, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Stop.” John grinned. “I’m taking the rubbish down and then I’ll pack and then we can go. Put the telly on if you want. I’ll be right back.” John went back to the door and picked up the bag. “And leave that box alone.” He looked Sherlock right in the eye. “I mean it.”

Sherlock bit his lip and nodded, the picture of innocence.

John left and closed the door. Sherlock counted to five before he jumped off the bed and sat on the carpet, pulling the box out of the corner. Silly John. He might know when the box was touched, but he’d forgotten he was dealing with Sherlock Holmes and not some mere mortal. The box was oak, stained golden, with a darker cherry detailing around the edges. It was pleasing to the eye, yet sturdy and useful. Sherlock lifted the lid on the smooth hinges. A bundle of silk black rope, a few plugs of varying sizes, a few thin books tucked in the side, a red rubber and wood table tennis paddle, a length of leather. He tilted the box and looked underneath the coil of rope and saw at least one leather cuff. He touched a fingertip to the neat coil of white rope with longing. He’d been tied once, a long time ago. Seb had indulged him and the bondage had been peaceful, in a way. Seb hadn’t allowed him to linger in the ropes for very long, as he wanted to get right to the sex, but despite the fleeting memories of the session Sherlock did remember his enjoyment at the constricting yet freeing nature of getting bound up. A sort of paradox.

Sherlock licked his lips and glanced back at the door, listening. Nothing. He didn’t know where John was dumping the rubbish, but it was likely he would be back very soon. Sherlock carefully lifted the paddle out and eyed it. This must be the one he mentioned before, the one that hurt a lot. Sherlock knocked it with a knuckle. It didn’t seem so bad. He looked in the box again. More cuffs. Some sparkling chain and a padlock—

“Sherlock Holmes!” John’s voice thundered behind. Sherlock threw the paddle inside and leaped to his feet, heart pounding. How many times had Seb shouted at him? Screamed his name in anger? It was practically a weekly occurrence. For the briefest of moments anxiety filled his chest like a rising tide and he spun around to face his dom, ready to argue the infraction.

The mere sight of John was enough to dispel the brief flash of fear. A grim smile graced the shorter man’s face and he had an eyebrow cocked in both sternness and amusement. His eyes were twinkling with delight and Sherlock smiled, relieved and excited.

John’s not Sebastian. He knew he wouldn’t have made the wild assumption that John was actually upset with him had he not received a text from Seb barely an hour ago. The idiot was on his mind. A spectre outside the window. Again he pushed thoughts of it aside. It was easy to do with John right in front of him, dominant and smiling. He focused all his attention back on his dom.

John shook his head. “Naughty, naughty boy, Sherlock.” John strode towards him and the sub backed away, trying not to giggle. “I ask you to do one thing.” John said. He stopped walking when Sherlock had bumped into the corner. His hands were at the small of his back and he was looking at the floor with his shoulders hunched up.

“What did I say?” John asked.

“Not to look in the box.” Sherlock bit his top lip and fidgeted.

“That’s not what I said.” John told him.

“Don’t touch the box.” Sherlock corrected.

“Exactly. And did you listen?”

“N-no.”

John came closer and stared up at him, arms crossed. He wasn’t really angry of course, but it was fun to just play with him a bit. Sherlock seemed to be enjoying it too, as he was clearly hiding a smile. A stern, unyielding expression was on John’s face, one Sherlock hadn’t seen before. The sub gulped and heat ignited in the center of his hips.

“This was very naughty, love.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t think you are. I think you might need a punishment.”

Sherlock looked up at him, a pinched expression of mock outrage on his face. “No, I don’t.”

“Hmm. I disagree. You go through my things after I expressly told you not to.” John raised his brows. “That’s cheeky disobedience. You knew exactly what you were doing.”

Sherlock gulped again. Sparks shot up his cock. What? What was this? John scolding him was turning him on?!

“I said I was sorry.” Sherlock looked away and a flush crept up his neck.

“I think you need to learn a lesson in keeping your hands to yourself.”

Sherlock shook his head quickly, even as his cock grew in his trousers.

“Yes you do. You’re getting punished and that’s final. Come on, now.” John turned and went back to the box, picking it up and setting it on the desk. He rooted around and took out two cuffs and a short length of chain with a clip on each end. “Get your clothes off. All of them.” John snapped out. Sherlock did, stripping out of his coat. His shirt and trousers followed and he was soon naked. His whole body was flushed and warm with arousal and excitement zinged through his stomach. Surely John could see it and even smell it, but the dom paid it no mind. He patted his thigh and Sherlock came to him, allowing his wrists to be cuffed and clipped together in front. He could barely move them apart.

“If you can’t keep your hands to yourself, you can’t use them at all.” John announced.

Sherlock took a deep breath and John went into the box again. “You seemed to have an interest in this.” He lifted the red paddle and ran his thumb over the edge as if he was testing a blade.

Sherlock licked his lips.

“This paddle is made of rubber and a very thin layer of bamboo—it adds strength as well as flexibility. Make no mistake, this is an instrument for punishing, Sherlock, not play.”

Sherlock’s cock jerked higher and John grinned.

“It’s red on both sides, see?” John showed him the rosy red of one side, then the almost burgundy shade on the opposing side. “Depending on how badly you mess up, the color of your arse will match either side one or side two by the time the lesson has set in.”

“John…” Sherlock breathed. Christ, his tone—his body language—John was being such a dom right now. Moreso than Sherlock had ever seen before. His cock jumped in excitement.

“Lots of naughty subs have felt this paddle and it’s made every single one cry. Since you only disobeyed me a little bit, I’ll make sure you don’t cry, but make no mistake,” he slapped the paddle against his palm. The clap! burst out and Sherlock startled. “You will be sore.” John took him by the forearm and sat on the edge of the bed. He pulled him down, mindful that he couldn’t balance as well without the complete use of his arms, and adjusted him over his lap. His prone body was supported by the bed and he was resting on his bent elbows.

“Arms okay?”

“Yes, John.”

The doctor grinned. Sherlock’s hard cock was pressing his thigh and his voice was breathy and filled with lust. He set the paddle aside for now and and smoothed his hand over Sherlock’s bum, feeling the warm skin and groping his round cheeks. He’d make this fun and make his sub feel good. It would be nice to infuse the room with some good memories for a change.

“Good lad. This was very bad, Sherlock. Going through my things will always be a punishable offense. I expect you to hold still and accept your spanking without complaint. Understand?”

“Yes!” He nodded.

John laid some soft little pats on his cheeks with his hand to get him warmed up and sensitive. Sherlock stretched his arms forward and rested his face on his bicep. His shoulders were a little tense but he was relaxing, soothed by John’s touch. The doctor patted him a few more times, then smacked him a little harder. Sherlock squirmed and John couldn’t resist pinching his thigh. He yipped and spread his legs, encouraging John to touch him lower.

“I warned you that the box is off limits.” John said, gently tapping his balls. Sherlock shuddered and lifted his bum. “But like a naughty thing, you didn’t listen and now I have to discipline this pretty arse.” John patted his cheeks again. “Lower, please.”

Sherlock settled back on his lap, his hard cock jammed on John’s thigh. His bottom was pink and rosy from the pats and petting and John gave him a harder slap, then a harder one, then one harder than that. Sherlock clenched his cheeks and jerked a little bit with each slap.

When John went back to the petting he relaxed, going boneless and trusting over his lap. It was fun and silly, of course it was—that was mostly the point, but John wanted to gauge his reactions too. He knew Sherlock could take the crop like a champ—and John loved how much he loved it. Seeing him leaned up against the fireplace with his body all dashed with crimson slashes was beautiful. Feeling him over his thighs though, vulnerable and naked, his weight and his warmth and being able to smell him and touch him all over like this was delicious. To see how he liked getting stroked and slapped and to see how much of John’s hands he could take.

John reached around his hip and found his hard cock. He squeezed it. Sherlock let out a little hiss-gasp and the dom left it alone for now. He had a plan.

He resumed the harder slaps.

“When you disobey me, Sherlock, this is what will happen. You will get punished.” Smack, smack. “Spankings get right to the point. A submissive with a smarting red bottom is a well-behaved submissive.”

“John…” Sherlock licked his lips and ground himself into John’s denim-covered jeans.

“And you will have a smarting red bottom by the time I’m finished with you.” Swat, smack, smack. He paused again and smoothed his hand over the red cheeks on his knee. He rubbed up and down his back, chuckling as Sherlock humped languidly into his jeans. “None of that.” He patted his thigh.

“But, John…I, it feels good.” He made a cute little whining sound into his bicep.

“I know, and that ends now.”

Sherlock went still and John picked up the paddle. Sherlock looked over his shoulder in alarm.

“Eyes forward.”

Sherlock made a little whiny noise but obeyed, resting his face in his arm again.

“Good boy. Brace yourself.” John raised the paddle over Sherlock’s bum and landed a smart smack on his left cheek.

“Ow!” The surprise and genuine shock at the sting of it was evident in his tone. The detective looked back at John over his shoulder with alarm shooting through his moon wide eyes.

“I told you.” John raised a brow and Sherlock gave the paddle a glare of infinite loathing.

John raised it up again and Sherlock opened his mouth to say something—

Smack!

“Ow—John!”

“Yes?”

“That hurts!”

“I know. I warned you.”

He made another little whiny sound and stuck his face back in his arm. “No more!” He said at the bed.

“A few more.” John countered. “You remember your word?” He adjusted his legs, getting Sherlock in a better position.

“Yes.” He answered in a dull tone.

John had given out countless spankings with this paddle and had endured a few himself. He wasn’t going to make Sherlock cry though—only a few swats would make even the most stubborn sub respectful and sorry. This was only a taste.

John swatted him again.

“Ow!” Sherlock clenched his arse muscles and grabbed handfuls of the bedsheets. “I’m sorry!” He yelped. The surprise was still laced in his voice. “I’m really, really sorry—I didn’t mean to look at your box!”

“Because you didn’t know this was in there.” John told him. Smack!

“John, please!”

The doctor set the paddle aside. His arse was a healthy pink even after only a few swats. This had been a good introduction to the paddle. The offense was minor and silly but still an offense, and now John could indulge in some lovely aftercare.

“Good boy. You took that very well.” John patted his back and Sherlock shuddered.

“Don’t like the paddle. I liked before though.”

“Good. That’s exactly what I was hoping for. Up, now.” John supported his elbow as he rolled to his feet. Sherlock tugged his hands again and bit his lip, feeling very vulnerable and chastened after his dom’s first punishment. “C’mon.” John pulled him to a corner by the closed curtains. “Kneel down.”

Sherlock did. John glanced around. There weren’t convenient throw pillows like at 221 so he grabbed his own pillow off the bed and dropped it in front of his sub. “Use this.” He helped him wedge it under his knees. “Now,” he straightened and spoke to the back of Sherlock’s head, “you think about your sore red bum as you stare at that corner. I’ll come get you when I’m ready.”

He strode towards the kitchen again and Sherlock’s cock jerked. His bottom was so warm and tender—and who knew that John scolding him would be so delightful? He shifted his fingers down and played with himself, touching his cock and rubbing the base of it. He never ever would have thought that a dominant scolding him would be arousing, not after all Seb’s volatile shouting. A quick grin tugged at his mouth as he realized once again how startlingly different the doctor was to his old dom. John would never shout abuse at him and the reassurance, confident and clear, was like a balm.

He clenched his arse cheeks and shivered. His pink bottom was facing the room and anyone who came in would see him there in the corner and know that John had spanked him. He grinned and both hoped and didn’t hope that someone would wander in.

He heard John walk back towards him from the kitchen, his footsteps soft on the carpet.

A warm hand rested on his head. “Alright, love?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes.”

“You can play with yourself, just don’t come. I have plans for that cock.”

“Yes, John.”

He walked off again. Sherlock listened to him rummage in the loo and then open a wardrobe somewhere. A bag unzipped, then the rustle of cloth. Sherlock hunched down a little bit and wrapped his hand around his cock. Plans? What kind of plans? Sherlock let himself go and folded his fingers. He wanted to come, but he wanted to experience the ‘plans’ more. He heard John set down a bag ten minutes later, then turn off a few lights, leaving the one over the door on.

“Come on, you.” John came over to him and helped him to his feet. “Time for those plans. I’ll finish you off and then we can go back to your flat and I’ll take care of you proper.”

John guided him on his back on the bed, tucking the pillow up behind him. “That is,” John said, “if you still want me tonight after that?”

Sherlock nodded and leaned back on the headboard, looking up at John with adoring eyes. His knees were splayed apart and his cock was red and hard. The blush of pink on his bum matched his flushed neck and ears and he watched John put the paddle away in the box and take a little bottle of lube out before closing the lid. He opened and closed his mouth a few times to stretch his jaw, then rolled his sleeves up. He crawled onto the bed and Sherlock watched him with bright eyes.

“Lift up.” John said, patting his calf. Sherlock lifted his feet, bringing his knees to his ears, and John leaned forward and swallowed down his cock.

“Oh—oh John!” Sherlock bit his lip and humped up into the warm mouth. Lubed fingers worked at his arse and Sherlock squeaked. It wasn’t fair, John mused. Sherlock had not only an experienced dom and sub working at his body, but also a doctor. John could unravel his body the way Sherlock unraveled a case, and the poor writhing, horny boy didn’t stand a chance. John started a mental countdown in his head. He’d give his sub ten seconds.

Ten. Nine.

He slipped his fingers deeper into his bum and tongued the underside of his cock. Sherlock moaned.

Eight, seven, six…

John found his prostate and his fingers danced a trilling rhythm over it. He worked his tongue over the slit in Sherlock’s cock and the sub rutted into his throat.

Five, four.

Sherlock humped and humped.

Three.

John pressed just below his prostate, teasing and maintaining pressure.

Two.

Sherlock whined and John slipped his tongue off the slit. He angled his wrist and dug fingers into Sherlock’s hot sore cheeks.

One.

He squeezed Sherlock’s cock between his tongue and the roof of his mouth and pushed directly on his prostate and Sherlock yelped. Warm bitterness flooded John’s mouth as Sherlock’s body convulsed in a stuttering sweating tempo. John fingered and licked him, enduring the bitter taste in his mouth for Sherlock’s pleasure. He was worth it. He went still after a few jerking, frantic moments, panting quietly.

John pulled out of his backside and slipped off his cock. Saliva had slopped down his chin and neck and he grabbed a handful of tissues off the desk, spitting everything out and wiping his face. He had mouthwash in the box too for this exact reason and he grabbed it, heading to the loo to swish and spit. Some people found his habit of rinsing right away offensive, but John didn’t care. As far as he was concerned, he had just given an excellent blowjob, so he was entitled to spit and rinse if he wanted.

His jaw muscles burned a bit, but that was okay. He went back to the bed and dropped the bottle in the box. Sherlock was blinking slowly at the ceiling.

“How was that, love.” John sat beside him, surprised when Sherlock sat up and kissed him, then nuzzled his face into his neck. “That good?”

“A very satisfactory blowjob…and, everything else.”

“Cheers.” John kissed his nose in delight. “Let’s get out of here.”

Sherlock nodded. His eyes were a little glassy and distant.

“You okay? Do you want to spend the night here?” John asked.

“No. I’ll be fine.”

John fit the wooden box into the suitcase at Sherlock’s insistence, then he unclipped his chain. “Get dressed again.”

Sherlock pulled everything back on. His pants irritated his tender skin and his bottom tingled once he was fully dressed. He slid his coat on and pushed his hands into his pockets.

John tilted his chin up and looked into his eyes. The side of his mouth went up in a grin. “Still okay?”

“Yes.” Sherlock nodded.

“Not quite under though, yes?” John asked.

“Not completely.” Sherlock said.

“I’d like to cuff you for the cab ride.”

Sherlock blinked at him.

“It’s dark. No one will see. I’d really like to do it if you don’t mind...”

“Here…” Sherlock held out his wrists and John cuffed him again.

“Good boy.” He kissed his cheek and they went to the door. “Carry that.” John pointed at the bag and Sherlock happily picked it up.

 

The cab ride was uneventful and no one at all paid any attention to Sherlock’s tied wrists, hidden in the night shadows. He was flopped back on the cab seat, his hands loose in his lap and his knees spread and touching John’s leg. He fidgeted now and then and John knew it was because of his paddled bum.

The flat was quiet and peaceful when they arrived. John set his bag down and uncuffed him. Sherlock picked up the suitcase right away, not even bothering to take off his coat, and brought it to the bedroom. John followed, curious. Sherlock put the bag on the bed and threw open his wardrobe. He cast a critical eye over the shirts and trousers and whatnot, then shoved some things aside with a flourish. He piled a bunch of shirts and trousers to the bed and nodded, satisfied. “Put your things here.” He said, pointing at the empty space. “If you want.”

“What about your clothes?” John said with a small smile. “I don’t want you to throw off your whole life for me.”

“Not throwing it off.” Sherlock said quietly. “You can hang your shirts and put your trousers in this drawer. I can move these things to this dresser.” Sherlock indicated a set of drawers on the other side of the room.

“Thank you.” John said sincerely. He opened his bag and Sherlock left the room. He wanted to check his website email, see if anything interesting had come in. He also wanted to make notes in his database. Tonight had been filled with all sorts of new information.

He hung up his coat and sat on the chair for three seconds before his bottom convinced him to stand. He leaned over the desk with a dreamy little sigh and logged in to his website.

There was a new email—a Mr. Berwick was apparently incarcerated in Belarus. He claimed he hadn’t stabbed his girlfriend to death, yet there he was in prison. Sherlock frowned and shrugged to himself. He was in a good mood and he hadn’t had a case in an age. Maybe this would be interesting. He scanned through the rest of the email.

Please come as soon as possible Mr. Holmes. I have enough money to get you on a six am flight tomorrow morning.

Six am? Sherlock looked at the time in the corner of the screen. It was pushing nine already and John was spending the night…Sherlock chewed the inside of his cheek. Would John let him go? He had more or less begged the doctor to spend the night and here he was considering buggering off early. But it was a case! He drummed his fingers on the desk. John would be okay with it, right? He’d gone on a case with Lestrade once, years ago, to Bristol. Seb had been less than pleased with his sub’s leaving to go off for days and days with a group of doms. He’d called Sherlock a few choice names that he’d ignored. He’d gone anyway, as much to solve the case as to spite Seb.

“Get out of my head!” He growled. He ruffled his hands through his hair as if trying to scatter the memories.

Seb had barely acknowledged his sub when he returned after the case. Sherlock didn’t say anything about the used condoms he saw in the bin in the loo in their flat, or the cigarette lighter than had been left in the bedroom that wasn’t his. Seb didn’t smoke. It wasn’t that Seb had cheated that bothered him, it was that he was too stupid to even try and hide the evidence.

Sherlock stood up, the action helping to dislodge the thoughts. In the bedroom, John was whistling as he unpacked. What would he say? Would he let him go? No time like the present. Sherlock paced through the doorway.

“Hey.” John grinned at him.

“I have a case.”

John looked at his watch. “Lestrade? Where?”

“Not through Lestrade, I, I have a website. It came through there.”

“Excellent, love.”

“I need to go to Belarus.”

“Oh?”

“Tomorrow at six am.”

“Six am?” John frowned and closed the flap on his empty case. Sherlock fidgeted but lifted his chin boldly. “Well that just won’t do.” John said.

Sherlock’s heart sagged to his knees.

John continued. “I can’t let you go off on a case so early in the morning without giving you a nice relaxing evening the night before. I still have to treat your bum.”

“You’re not upset?” Sherlock clarified.

“Not at all.” John came over to him and kissed him. “I’m glad you’re getting cases.”

“I asked you to spend the night and now I have to leave. If you want to go back to your flat, I understand.”

John put his hand on Sherlock’s chest. “I think I can make do. It’s getting late and I’d like to have fun tonight. Maybe the crop if you’re up for me whacking you some more?”

Sherlock nodded hard and went to fetch it.

 


	13. Bondage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock asks John and important question, and they continue to experiment--literally--in the bedroom.

“Just, tell me what happened. From the beginning.” The puff of warm breath crystallized in front of Sherlock’s face as he watched Mr. Berwick—a dominant— fidget in the chair across from him at the rickety table.

“We were at a bar,” he began, “nice place, and I got chattin’ with one of the waitresses…”

_Dull, dull, dull._ Sherlock shifted in his chair, still able to feel the faint crop marks on his thighs and shoulders. His bum was even a bit tender from the paddle. Sherlock stifled a smile at the thought of last night. John had pulled his clothes off and laid him on the bed and instructed him to keep his palms pressed against the headboard. He’d then cropped his back and thighs, generously skipping over his sore, recently paddled spots. Afterwards John had rubbed something cool and soothing into his skin and kissed all his tender parts until he was shivering, his hands leaving clammy spots of mist on the wooden headboard.

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from grinning as Berwick went on a tangent about his girlfriend—also a dominant, no surprise there was friction there. Co-dynamics rarely dated well together. Two of Seb’s friends were a pair of dating doms and they could rarely spend an evening together without verbally tearing each other to pieces. Then again, verbal abuse had largely been a part of Seb’s sphere, so he wasn’t surprised that even the man’s friends were so abrasive. If Seb had tried to pull him over his knee and smack him, Sherlock would have Lestrade on him for assault charges before he could blink. It was different, what John did. John was…better. He bit his cheek harder. If he kept thinking of his dom, he’d smile, and now was not the time or place.

He tuned back in to Berwick.

“She was always gettin’ at me, sayin’ I weren’t a real man.”

“ _Wasn’t_ a real man.” Sherlock corrected. Honestly.

“What?”

“It’s not ‘weren’t’, it’s ‘wasn’t’.”

“Oh.”

“Go on.” He prompted, his patience running thin. Enough rambling. Get to the crux.

“Well, then I dunno how it happened, but suddenly there’s a knife in my hands. And, you know, me old man was a butcher, so I know how to handle knives.”

Sherlock glanced down at the man’s hands to confirm his story. The calluses were in the correct places on his index finger and thumb—at least that part was true anyway.

“He learned us how to cut up a beast.”

“Taught.”

“What?!”

_“Taught_ you how to cut up a beast.” Sherlock shifted in the metal chair, enjoying irritating the suspect. Really though, if he couldn’t be arsed to even speak correctly, how did he expect to get out of prison? He adjusted his scarf and a pleasant waft of the scent of John’s undershirt that he’d nicked before his flight grazed his nose, just enough to make him think of his dom again, home in the warm bed. Alone. He’d woken to see Sherlock off, even making him a big paper cup of coffee to have in the cab to Heathrow. The detective had sipped it gratefully in the car and had been more touched by the gesture than he cared to admit.

“Yeah well, then I done it—”

“ _Did_ it.”

“ _Did it!_ Stabbed her! Over and over and over again and I looked and she weren’t— _wasn’t,_ moving no more.”

Sherlock had half a mind to get up and walk away.

_“Any_ more.” Berwick corrected himself, noting Sherlock’s ire.

Sherlock stood up, the chair scratching loudly on the concrete floor. He’d had just about enough of this. Berwick got angry and killed his dom girlfriend. He clearly hadn’t gone into Defense. A ghost must have placed the knife in his hands. Open and shut domestic, too bad, so sorry. There was no case to solve. He strode for the door.

“You’ve gotta help me Mr. Holmes!” He shouted after him. “Everyone says you’re the best. Without you, I’ll get hung for this.”

Sherlock stopped in his tracks and smirked. Oh this was just too perfect.

“No, no no Mr. Berwick, not at all. _Hanged,_ yes.”

He strode from the room, past the guard lurking in the hall and out the door into the dull cold morning. He pulled his coat collar up higher around his neck and another waft of _John_ enveloped him. He walked faster, turning out of the prison compound and striding off to the main road to catch a taxi back to his hotel. As far as he was concerned, Mr. Berwick dug his own grave with every stab of the knife. The evidence was obviously conclusive, given that the man was in prison, and Sherlock gave it no more thought. London was his agenda now, and he was sure he could be back at 221 and at his dom’s feet by tea time. He raised a gloved hand and hailed a cab.

John had been pleasantly agreeable to him going off to Minsk for this case. He had given him the crop just because he knew Sherlock liked it—and this was _after_ the blowjob and the painfully delicious scolding and paddling. The big cup of coffee had been thoughtful and Sherlock contemplated this as he stared out the window. He’d like to reciprocate, but how? Should he ask the doctor to move in? Was it too soon? They’d only been dating a short time, but everything seemed to be going well. He’d certainly _like_ John to live with him. He wasn’t the best judge of this kind of thing.

He could practice his oral skills. He wanted to get good at pleasuring John but he was unused to the size of his cock. Surely he could practice with a dildo and some stretching exercises. There _had_ to be information out there about that. He had never really looked into tools or methods that would allow him to better satisfy a lover. He was still exploring his own submission, in a way, and a sort of pleasing warmth filled his chest when he realized that John inspired him to explore these concepts. It wasn’t just about sex and getting off. Being with John was, in a way, calming. The games they played, the crop and the kneeling and the intimate groping were certainly nice and and welcomed, but the simple domestic pleasure of having someone else in his flat was pleasing in a different way. Sherlock would bring the paper in for John and the doctor would make him tea or coffee. John borrowed his card to go to the shops and would then pay cab fare from his own pocket. It was domestic and mundane and all the things he scoffed, but he was quietly realizing that despite the familiarity of it all, it was still highly agreeable. More than he ever would have thought.

He shifted in his seat, resting the back of his closed fist against his mouth as he watched Independence Square fly by out the taxi window. In a way he felt a bit pathetic, having experienced none of this kind of thing until his age, but he had John now and it was better late than never.

* * *

Earlier that same morning…

_John rubbed a wash of sweat off his forehead. The Afghani heat was unrelenting and impossible to get used to. It was bad enough in the medical areas enclosed by steel and canvas, but compared to when he was out here actually on assignment with his group, covered in kevlar and directly under the baking sun, the makeshift canvas hospital seemed as cold as a meat locker. Little did John know it would be the last time he ever had to deal with the Afghani heat._

_A shout broke through the dry, still air and after that? Things were hazy. More shouting, ducking, bullets and gunfire. Commands were snapped out before a starburst of electric fire blazed through his left shoulder and sent him crashing to the dusty ground. The pain was indescribable. His people shouted and guns fired and John lay there as a young sub medic, Walker, leaned over him to check vitals._

_“You’re alright Doc. Just stay still.”_

_Walker was new, just deployed a couple weeks ago._

_“Sure thing.” John muttered. “Don’t let me die.”_

_“You’re too pretty to die, Captain.” He pressed hard on John’s shoulder to stem the blood flow. He winked and John managed a small smile. In the next instant, Walker was dead, a bullet right between his eyes, bleeding out over John’s stomach as gunfire echoed around them._

 John jerked awake in Sherlock’s wide bed, panting with fear. Christ. He rubbed a shaky hand over his face and chest, still trying to wipe the phantom blood from his clothes. _It was a dream._ He groped on the side table for his phone. It slipped out of his hand and _thonked_ on the floor and he swore at it, reaching blindly under the bed until he found it. 8:04 am. The light was grey and cold through the curtains and John looked at the empty space on the mattress the detective usually occupied. It was colder without his sub. The sheets seemed to have a gritty texture to them, bland and industrial. When Sherlock was here they were soft and sumptuous, warm and inviting. John sat up, resting his bare feet on the icy floor. The chill shocked him into wakefulness and he tried to pile his thoughts in order. That had been a bad one. It was short, as nightmares tended to go, but it was always Walker. Soldiers and civilians had lived and died under his hands, but his subconscious liked to dwell on the sandy-haired young medic. Maybe because he was there when John was shot. Maybe because John had been completely unable to save him. He knew there was nothing he could have done. Sholto had convinced him of that and Ella had confirmed it. But still, he couldn’t help the grain of guilt that still irritated, an itch forever under his skin.

A sense of loneliness washed over him like a tide. Sherlock wasn’t here and Walker was dead. That’s all there was to it. He had no idea when he’d see his boy again, but he’d never wanted to hug him as badly as he did now.

“Oh.” He made a irritated noise when he glanced down and saw his hard cock poking against his cotton pants. “Not fucking surprised at that.” He stood up, scrubbing hands through his hair as Walker’s dead image floated through his head again. He suspected it was the adrenaline of the dream that sometimes stiffened him up. It sure as hell wasn’t sexual desire doing it.

“Go away.” He growled. He paced through the blue gloomy morning light, grumbling. His shoulder flared up in pain and he slammed his hand into the wall. The _thud_ echoed in the silent space and he belatedly realized that it was early morning and he might have woken someone. Whatever. It cleared his head a little further and no one shouted through the walls.

Sherlock had left this morning and he could be gone for days, even _weeks_ if the case warranted it. He looked at the riding crop on the floor and the tube of lotion on the side table and smiled. Hell, three months ago he hadn’t even known the detective existed, and now here he was bitching because he was on a case. _Suck it up, soldier._

He trotted to the wardrobe and grabbed a thick cashmere and wool pair of Sherlock’s winter socks, stuffing his feet into the warmth. He dug around for an undershirt that he knew he had left on one of the cleared shelves. Odd. He could have sworn he left it here. He checked the floor and even under the bed. No matter. He grabbed his terry cloth dressing gown and pulled it over chilled shoulders.

He headed to the kitchen, snagging his phone along the way, and flipped on the coffee maker. He dashed off a quick text to Sherlock:

_Miss you already. —JW_

Cars droned on outside and faint voices from the other tenants sounded through the old walls. Sherlock’s experiment detritus littered the table and John poured himself a mug of steaming coffee. He opened the cabinet to reach for the package of Hob Nobs he’d taken from his bedsit yesterday evening. Gone. Not even a crumb. First his under shirt, now his biscuits. It looked like there was a thief about. He was willing to bet every quid in his wallet the culprit was a lanky git with curly hair and a too-big brain. His mouth quirked and he drank his coffee, sadly Hob Nob-less. Hell it was quiet here. There were no background noises of bubbling liquids or hissing chemicals. No dead pigeons. No silver Macbook on the desk beside his own red laptop. Sherlock had taken it with, then. He must anticipate being there a while.

Most of the tell-tale signs that a mad genius lived in the flat were gone, but there was a key on the kitchen table and a note beside it.

  _John, your copy of the key to 221B. —Sherlock_

John picked up the key. Clearly the man expected John to come and go as he pleased while he was away, and the trust that entailed was humbling. Last night he’d moved most of his clothes over, now he had a key. He wondered if he should let his landlord know that he might not be needing his bedsit next month. He’d been giving Sherlock time to ask, not wanting to sound pushy, but his very own key? That had implications. He slipped it onto his own key ring, deciding to bring it up soon with his sub, then texted Sarah:

  _Please tell me you’re understaffed and need a filler. —JW_

Her reply was gratifyingly fast.

  _We’re understaffed and need a filler—only for today tho. Bless u. Thx. —DrSarah_

Thank God for that. John put the phone aside and headed for the loo to shower, glad that he wouldn’t be stuck all day in either his bedsit or Sherlock’s empty flat with nothing to keep him company but a head full of war memories.

 

* * *

 

John slumped at his desk in his office several hours later, weary but pleased with the day’s distracting work. Two flu cases, a sprained ankle, a sprained wrist, gastroenteritis, piles, and a surprising amount of rashes. His stomach roared and he checked his watch. It had been ages since his hurried ‘lunch’ of berry yogurt and vending machine pretzels and he rooted around in his desk drawer until he found a granola bar. One more hour before he had to go back to cold and lonely 221, which was still infinitely better than the cold and lonely bedsit. He really hoped Sherlock wouldn’t be too long in Minsk. He ripped open the plastic on the bar and took out his phone to check for messages. The first one he saw had his heart leaping for joy.

  _Case awful. Coming back to London now. —SH_

 The second text had his cock leaping for joy.

  _Since case was boring, would like to spend time tonight exploring new options, ie, heavier bondage, tactility. Are you amenable? —SH_

Then another:

  _I will purchase a variety of ropes. —SH_

 Sherlock was coming back today! He looked at the time stamp on the texts. He’d sent them hours ago. And—Bondage!? Hell yes he was amenable. He gulped his snack and thumbed out a response:

  _At the surgery. Will be back in an hour. Yes, I am quite amenable to bondage and tactile play. Are you at B? —JW_

_Yes. I purchased ropes. See you soon. —SH_

It was the longest hour of John’s life. He threw his gear in his office and cleaned up the exam room after the last patient, waving a quick good bye to Sarah before practically running out into traffic at the first cab he saw. It was a cool dusk evening and the asphalt roads were slicked with the remnants of the day’s rain. John drummed his fingertips on the cab’s leather armrest on the door and had his wallet out at the corner of Marylebone and Baker Street, glancing at the meter and pulling out notes before the cab even stopped.

He stepped into 221 and peered up the stairs, locking the door behind and jumping up to the flat with a sort of Christmas morning excitement churning in his belly.

He pushed open the kitchen door and though he didn’t see Sherlock, he smelled something delicious. Containers from Angelo’s were stacked and steaming on the table and he poked through them. Cheese ravioli and 3-meat lasagna and Caesar salad. Perfect. He licked his lips and turned to the sitting room, taking off his coat.

“Sherl—” He froze, his arm half out of his sleeve.

Sherlock was kneeling on the carpet between the two chairs, naked. His right hand was wrapped loosely around his leaking cock and his knees were spread wide. His lips were wrapped around what appeared to be a rather large pink dildo clutched tight in his right hand. His chin was shining with saliva and he slid the toy further into his mouth and held it a moment, jacking himself slowly and looking like he was trying very hard not to gag.

He glanced up and saw John. He winked and grinned around the toy.

John licked his lips, his cock lurching painfully in his jeans. Sherlock naked—masturbating—his lips swollen and stretched around that toy. All the heat in his body went south and he let out a fast panting breath. “What are you doing and can I please help you?” He finished pulling off his coat and tossed it in the general direction of the coat rack, his eyes locked on Sherlock, then yanked off the rest of his clothes. He had no idea what this was, but _this_ experiment he wanted in on.

Sherlock extracted the toy from his mouth and wiped his chin. John crouched in front of him and cupped his nape, pulling him into a rough, welcoming kiss. Sherlock grunted in surprise and melted into him, resting his fingers on John’s cheek, enjoying and returning the affection. Sherlock pulled back after a moment and shoved John to the floor.

He fell onto his arse, _whump_ ingonto the rug with annoyed yelp of surprise. Sherlock paid his grumbles no mind and simply grabbed his dom’s cock. John went still and splayed his knees. He rested back on his elbows, grinning as Sherlock pushed his fist over the thick length of the cock and pulled it up. John watched with hungry eyes as his sub pressed his dildo against it, comparing the two with a scientific eye.

“Same size.” He murmured, satisfied.

“So…?”

Sherlock sighed and sat back on his arse, suddenly looking sheepish. “I’m…practicing.” He stared down at the dildo. “So I can fit your cock in my mouth more easily.”

“I’ll help you practice.” John said quickly.

“Oh?” Sherlock glanced back up. “You don’t mind me practicing on you? Won’t that ruin the final effect?”

John shook his head so fast it left his vision swimming.

“I thought I could get proficient so that I could make it feel better for you—”

“—it feels fine.” John cleared his throat. His cock was supremely interested in being so close to naked Sherlock and most rational thought was gone.

“Excellent.” Sherlock said, his eyes bright with delight. “We’ll have to practice together, then.”

He hopped up to his feet and set the dildo on the mantle. “I purchased the variety of ropes.” He nodded at the coffee table. John was still laying there, processing ‘practicing’ with Sherlock.

“John!” Sherlock called. “Focus.”

John blinked and looked over his shoulder and sure enough, the ropes were all laid out. Three bundles, black, white and purple, were wrapped up neatly. John cleared his throat and got to his feet and sat on the sofa. He ran fingers over the black ropes. They were silky and sateen under his fingertips, soft enough to feel good but rough enough for the fibers to cling and hold tight. The white ropes made him frown. Thin and acrylic, it was more like cheap clothesline than anything that would be worthy of being wrapped around his sub’s flesh. It would dig into the skin and hurt. John picked up the purple ropes, noting appreciatively that they were less rope and more pashmina silk scarf. A sinfully soft roll of flat plum fabric.

“Good choices?” Sherlock asked.

John looked up at him. “Very good. Come here, love.” He patted his leg. “Let me give you another kiss.”

Sherlock didn’t need any urging. He straddled John and they snogged hard, their hands rubbing up and down each other’s back and chests. John broke the kiss and hugged him close. “Sore still?” He asked, touching his thighs and bum.

“A bit. It’s going away though.”

“Good.” John gripped him harder and whispered in his ear, “I’m going to tie you up tonight, Private Holmes.”

“Oh yes, Captain.”

“These ropes around your arms? Around your cock? You’ll be entirely at my mercy and all mine.”

Sherlock hummed. “Use all three tonight. I’m doing an experiment.”

“Oh that can certainly be arranged…but let’s eat first. I’m famished.”

Sherlock got up and they both put on dressing gowns and headed for the kitchen table. John fished the packages of food out of the bags and Sherlock got them both forks, forgoing dishes. They could just eat from the containers. It’s not like they were worried about sharing germs. John popped the lid off the plastic ravioli box and breathed in the savory scent of cheese and tomato sauce and perfectly cooked pasta. He stabbed a piece of spinach and cheese ravioli and popped it into his mouth, groaning in pleasure.

Sherlock followed his example and tore open another box, dipping in with his fork and nibbling the Caesar salad.

“Here.” John held a piece of steaming ravioli out to him, covered in sauce and cheese. Sherlock glanced up at him and leaned forward, picking it delicately off the fork with his teeth and chewing happily. John grabbed some salad for himself and popped open the lasagna. He tore a bite off of the generous chunk of pasta and held his fork out again. Sherlock licked his lips and leaned forward again, taking the bite into his mouth. John slid the fork out from between his lips and they grinned at each other, chewing.

“Thank you for picking this up.” John said, taking his own bite. “I appreciate it.”

“It was more convenient this way.” Sherlock shrugged. He sat still, staring at John tucking into the food. John had fed him off his own fork and it had been…kind of nice. Intriguing. Certainly worth more investigation. He cleared his throat, caught his dom’s eye, and glanced pointedly at the pasta box. John took the hint and gave him more lasagna. He didn’t usually do feeding. He didn’t enjoy it himself as a sub. Too obsequious for his pride. The times he’d tried it as a dom, it often felt awkward and forced. With Sherlock though, it felt as natural as is could have been. It was still a bit odd, but pleasantly intimate in its own way.

They finished off the ravioli and John put away half of the lasagna and salad into the fridge for later and sighed patting his sated belly. “That’s much better. Now where were we?”

“I believe you were going to tie me up, Captain.” Sherlock pressed up against him in a hug-grope.

“Ah yes. Go grab your ropes and let’s go to the bedroom.”

Sherlock gleefully obeyed. He darted down the hall with the ropes and John stalked after.

“Can we use the crop again?” Sherlock asked hopefully.

“Not tonight. Clothes off and kneel.” John instructed. Sherlock pouted but he tossed his gown to the chair in the corner and knelt up on the bed. John unwound each bundle, taking his time to let the varying textures slip through his fingers, soft and sensual and cool and slick like velvet water between his fingers. His cock was interested again, seeing Sherlock nude and feeling the soft ropes in his hands had jerked it stiff and eager again. He loved tying up his submissives—he loved it even more when they were as keen as Sherlock was now. Every sub he’d ever tied up relished it in just a slightly different way. Faster breaths, slower breaths, a deep flush across the neck, fingers dancing in excitement or soft little moans. He had one sub once who could orgasm just from being bound up a certain way. Every experience was unique but familiar and John loved all of it. The multiple types ropes though—that was new. Leave it to Sherlock to turn it into an experiment.

“Clasp your hands behind you.” John told him. Sherlock did, locking his fingers over his sacrum and taking a deep breath. “There you go.” John murmured. He slid his own gown off and threw it aside. “Relax into it. Deep breaths, in and out.” He rested his hand on Sherlock’s head, gently tilting it down. The detective sighed, his shoulders slumped and a long satisfied breath escaped his lips. His head tilted a bit further down and John rubbed his scalp. “Hush, now. Settle….settle.”

Sherlock took a deep, long breath, his pounding pulse slowing.

“Good.” Fingers curled through his hair. “Remember your safeword. Use it if you need to.”

A nod.

Sherlock glanced over, staring at John’s thick stiff cock. His own reared up a little higher and the dom’s pride swelled. It took Sherlock a long time to get erect, and he was pleased that just the mere sight of his cock was enough to get the detective’s body interested. John got up on the bed and wound the silky black ropes around his sub’s chest. He brushed his hands in long strokes over his smooth skin as he bound him up underneath his arms and criss crossing his sternum. He wound one end up around his neck, mimicking a collar and gulped at the sight of the dark band around his pale throat. He slipped two fingers underneath and gently tugged. “Alright? Not too tight?”

“Fine.” Sherlock breathed.

He finished it off, letting the last few inches dangle over his thoracic spine.

“Beautiful.” He admired his handiwork and kissed Sherlock on the forehead. He reached for the white plastic-y clothesline next and unraveled it. It felt cheap and light in his hands and John made a face at it. He would never choose these ropes for his sub.

“Why these?” He asked.

“It’s an experiment.” He said, shifting self consciously on the bed.

“These aren’t going to be comfortable for you.” John warned.

“That’s okay.” Sherlock looked up at him, eyes wide and open and pleading. “Use them, John. Please?”

John gulped. That look and that tone were a bitter weakness of his. How the detective, so superior and sentiment-scoffing, could melt him to utter putty with that one baby-eyed puppy look was just not fair.

“Of course.” He said. He rolled his eyes fondly and knelt behind him on the bed, binding his wrists up. He coiled the rope up his arm, keeping the tension even as the light skin was slowly caged up in thin white lines. This rope would leave marks for sure, and John concluded happily that he could at least rub some lotion into the skin after.

Sherlock’s breaths slowed and steadied as John worked and the doctor grinned to himself, his pride swelling as Sherlock sank down into subspace under his hands.

“Doing alright?” John shuffled around in front of him and tilted his chin up to gave him a kiss.

His eyes were hazy with peace and he blinked slowly. “Yes.”

John pulled the two ends of white rope down, pulling them taut between his bottom cheeks. Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat but he widened his knees and John pulled the ropes forward and up, tying them to the black ropes on his chest. He checked the tension on his wrists, running delicate fingers over the rope and skin. His fingers and arms were the right colors; the blood flow wasn’t getting choked off.

Finally John grabbed the purple flat soft fabric and wound it around his thighs and calves, wedging it under his shins and effectively tying his sub’s legs to themselves and ensuring he was trapped in a kneeling position. Satisfied, he leaned back against the headboard and admired his beautiful yet _colorful_ sub. His shoulders jutted forward at an enticing angle. His cock was stiff and glistening, leaking slow lines of precum. His legs were almost obscenely wide as John adjusted to the cords running tight between his cheeks and on either side of his balls.

“See if you can move.” John said. Sherlock shifted, a shy grin on his face. The ropes barely gave and he grunted, failing to shimmy free. He tried to twist around but all he managed was a few half hearted squirms and he looked up at John with something like pure happiness on his face. John stared for a few more moments, committing the image of Sherlock Bound and Happy to his memory.

“You seem to enjoy this.” John told him, unable to help from smiling back at his delighted sub.

“I can’t move.” Sherlock giggled and God it was adorable.

“Perfect.” John sat on the bed in front of him, his back to the headboard, and straightened his legs out, sliding his left between Sherlock’s spread knees. He grabbed the fabric around his thighs and heaved, sliding his sub along the sheets towards him until their naked groins were crammed together. Sherlock snuggled close and rested his head on John’s, breathing fast and hard into his hair as he nudged forward even more, getting in as much skin contact as he could manage and sort of hunching his bound shoulders forward.

“Alright?” John asked, amused. He petted his ribs.

“Uh-huh.”

John kept stroking his arms, his sides, his hips. He squeezed his arse and rubbed his hands up and down his bottom. He’d missed this. Sherlock had only been gone a day but still he’d missed the warm touch of his sub. His hot skin and the little breathy noises he made when John did something he liked. Christ. He stared down at his sub’s hard cock, pressed up against his own rapidly stiffening one.

“Can I touch?” John asked, hovering over Sherlock’s dick.

“Yes, yes.”

Delighted, John smushed both their cocks together tight in his fist and _pulled…_

Sherlock jerked violently into him, a squeak tearing from his throat. “Do that again!”

John grinned and pulled again.

“Oh—oh God, John.” Sherlock humped his hips forward as well as he could while bound and tied. “That’s, that’s…”

“Yeah.” Sweat dribbled down John’s neck as pleasurable pressure built at the base of his spine, expanding and coiling through his hips

“C’mon.” John encouraged. He shifted on the mattress, straightening up and adjusting his grip. “Show me how you get off…”

Sherlock growled through his teeth, rocking in time with John’s pulls. The doctor grabbed his hip and squeezed and Sherlock threw his head back, his mouth open in ecstasy and he climaxed and hammered into John’s slick hand. John pulled harder and the detective hissed, his face contorting and his hips snapping. The wet heat running over his dick made John climax, Sherlock’s name escaping through clenched teeth. He gave them each a few more pulls, working through it, then slowed and eased his sodden hand off. Good God, his hand, thighs, and the bed sheets were soaked.

They both bumped foreheads gently, panting each other’s hot exhales.

“I’m so glad that case was short.” John mumbled, patting Sherlock’s hip with his clean hand.

Sherlock grinned. “It was barely a one.” He stole a kiss and leaned back upright.

“That was…” he looked at John’s wet hand and made a face. “Disgusting.”

“You think so?” John lifted his hand, covered with both of their ejaculate, and stared into Sherlock’s eyes. He licked a stripe up his index finger and swallowed lasciviously. Sherlock’s eyes widened and his mouth twisted into a hint of uncertain disgust. John laughed out loud and offered his hand to Sherlock not unlike the way he’d offered him forkfuls of food earlier. He made a face at it but tentatively lapped John’s pinky. He grimaced as if having bit a lemon.

“Don’t like it?” John snickered. “Me neither, honestly, and you do have something of a sweet tooth. Speaking of sweet, any idea where my Hob Nobs went?”

“We should shower. You’re sweaty.” Sherlock answered.

“So are you.” John squeezed his sub’s hips. “Did you steal my biscuits?”

“Quickly John. When that semen dries it will be impossible to get out of the sheets.”

“I don’t give toss about the sheets.” John said, an amused smile on his face (even as he made a mental note not to let Mrs. Hudson near this particular load of laundry). “Answer me.” He squeezed Sherlock’s body.

“If you don’t like it, why did you lick your finger?”

“To see what you’d do. Where are they, Sherlock? If you don’t tell me, I’m afraid I’ll have to punish you.” John raised a brow at him. “Hm?” Sherlock’s cheeks colored and he looked away. John was tickled. “All trussed up like this, I could do anything to you. Anything at all.”

The detective didn’t answer.

“Alright. You asked for it.” He fastened his lips around Sherlock’s left nipple, grinding his tongue across the nub of skin.

“John!” Sherlock gasped and instinctively reached forward—but the ropes tightened across his forearms, locked away behind him, the cheap acrylic-plastic digging hard into his skin. He growled through his teeth as that tongue laved him and tiny love nips stung bright.

“Ah—stop, stop, stop…”

John lifted his head, his expression open. He tried not to laugh. “Yes? Do you have an answer for me?”

“There’s a great deal of protein in semen, despite the taste,” Sherlock began conversationally. John grunted and spread his hand across Sherlock’s damp back, pulling him close and attacking his other nipple.

Sherlock stared up at the Ju Jitsu certificate above his bed, panting as John worked over his chest. “Nipples are an erogenous zone.” He stuttered, “t-the nerve endings in, ah, male nipples are closer together than those of women—oh God!”

John licked a stripe across his chest back to the left one. Pain and pleasure blazed through Sherlock’s brain and it felt like everything was short circuiting in a wonderful miasma of sparks and grinding gears.

“I took them!” He shouted. “I took your Hob Nobs!”

John lifted his head with a triumphant grin on his red lips. “Bad boy.” He swatted his bottom and squeezed the cheek.

“John, you haven’t _seen_ bad yet.”

The doctor laughed. “I don’t doubt that for a second, love.”

“Think you’ll be able to handle me?” His tone was light and playful but veined with a vulnerable chord. How long would the doctor last before he decided that all the kitchen sink experiments and mad dashes to Belarus in the wee hours and the cases were all just too much?

“Two tours in Afghanistan, med school, and years spent as a full-time emergency doctor?” He patted his hip. “I think I can handle _you_ just fine.”

Sherlock snorted in laughter, but it felt good to hear him say that.

“How are your arms?”

“Getting a bit tight.”

“Let’s get you un-trussed.” John said. “That shower sounded good.”

Sherlock nodded and John reached around, finding the knots on the white acrylic rope. These were the least comfortable, so he wanted to get them off first. He fiddled with the knot, tugging at the fibers. It was tight. He hadn’t meant to make the knots so strong. He dug his fingernails into the thin cotton, trying to pry a loop free.

“Scoot closer to me.” John murmured. Sherlock shuffled forward until John’s cheek was pressed against his chest. John was able to reach the knots easier, but they were still pulled tight.

Sherlock cleared his throat and John went for the satin ropes instead. Those knots came free easily enough and he unwound the purple silk, fluttering off Sherlock’s creamy thighs. He pulled the black ropes loose and piled them on top of the purple silk. Then he went back to the white knots.

“Stuck?” Sherlock’s voice was tinged with amusement.

“The knots are so damn strong…” John was getting nowhere fast. “I have to get up. I can’t see what I’m doing.”

Sherlock stared at him as he stood, one brow raised and a hint of a smile on his face.

“I’m sorry!” John said, smiling. “Clothesline doesn’t make good bondage gear. That’s why I don’t use it—put that in your experiment data.”

Sherlock wriggled his fingers. He rolled to the side carefully and sat on his bum, stretching his stiff legs and wiggling his toes.

“I have scissors in my box. This is just…a bit of a tangle.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and John ducked into the closet, opening his box and pulling free the sharp little scissors. He neatly sliced the white ropes away.

“We’re never using that cheap rubbish in the bedroom again.” He flung the frayed the clothesline in the corner, as if it had personally affronted him. He set the scissors aside. “Okay?” He rubbed his sub’s arms, indented pink with the cheap ropes.

“Yes.” He rolled his shoulders and John kissed his forehead. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat there a moment, re-acquainting his muscles with normal movement. It had been an age since he’d been in bondage and even when he tied himself up, it was never this effective.

“Alright?” John supported his bicep as he stood, stretching his long legs and flexing his toes.

“Very good.” He declared.

“Sorry about that.” John said, running the pad of this thumb over a mark on his wrist. “You stayed calm though, that was good.”

Sherlock looked at him like he was a moron. “You honestly expected me to panic?”

“Some people are really skittish with bondage, and we’ve never done it before.”

Sherlock looked disgusted. “I would never panic under your hands, you fool.” He kissed John’s forehead and ran his hand impertinently over his dom’s bottom. “Shower, Captain?”

John watched him saunter into the loo and he licked his lips.

“Yes, let’s.” He murmured, following him. Sherlock had just turned the water on, when—

“John, take my blood!”

“What…?”

“I need to do a blood test…” Sherlock opened the cabinet under the sink, grabbing a vial and syringe and some gloves.

“Why?” John asked, his eyebrow up in confusion.

“It’s for an experiment.” He thrust the items at him. “Just take a little.”

John fumbled the vial and the gloves fell to the floor.

“Hurry, John!” Sherlock held his arm out insistently and John bent, grabbing the gloves and pulling them on.

“Why? What is this about?” He said, fitting the vial on the end of the syringe.

“I need data.” He said simply.

Sherlock stood there and watched as John wiped his elbow clean with an alcohol pad and pricked him. The vial filled and the detective smiled with satisfaction.

“There.” John slipped the needle out and pressed gauze onto the wound. He looked around for a place to dump the used needle.

“There’s a biohazard bin above the fridge. Can you put the blood in the rack on the top shelf?”

“Of course.” John left and deposited the needle and put the blood safely in the fridge in the rack beside the salad, rolling his eyes fondly at the sight of Sherlock’s blood, the remains of the plague blood, and the leftover food. Sherlock was already in the tub when he returned, the spray warm and steamy. John tossed the gloves in the bin and pushed aside the curtain and joined him under the rush of water.

“Data for what?” He asked.

“I…just need it. For experiments.”

John thought about asking, then sense kicked in. He shrugged. “Alright then.”

They took a long time, soaping and rinsing and kissing. John massaged shampoo into his sub’s hair and Sherlock gently washed every inch of his dom’s body, lost in thought as he did. Was now a good time to ask him to move in? They were in the shower, but did it matter? Would John say no? It would be fine if he did. Sherlock understood the desire to have one’s own space. Better to do so now, he decided, while he had the courage and the oxytocin whizzing through his veins made his brain hum a little quieter.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice was hesitant.

“Yes?”

“I…left you a key this morning.”

_He’s going to ask for it back,_ John thought, his heart skipping disappointedly in his chest. _Fair enough._

“I’d like you to keep it. I’d like you to move in with me.”

John stared at him blankly. Sherlock was sure this had been a terrible idea. _Idiot! It’s too soon!_

“Yes.” John’s smile put the sun to shame. “Yes, I will move in here.”

Sherlock kissed him, relief flooding his limbs, and John kissed him back.

Only when the spray turned cold did they regretfully shut the water off and pat themselves down with towels. Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and pulled him back to bed, shoving the ropes to the floor and dragging John down into the sheets with him, snuggling him like he was a plush toy. John grinned at his adorable possessiveness and settled beside him. He had never looked forward to moving house so much in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TGG transcript courtesy of http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/46716.html


	14. Out on a Limb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The game is on!

  _21 May_

_Conducted experiment yesterday re: bondage. Three (3) types of restraints were used:_

_1) 50% silk, 30% cotton, 20% rayon mix in black rope, apprx 1 cm in diameter_

_2) Plastic clothesline wrapped in 100% cotton in white approx 4 mm in diameter._

_3) 100% silk fabric in royal plum approx 8 cm wide._

_Subject was cataloging comfort level and restraining qualities of each type of restraint. Prior to experiment, subject hypothesized that restraint three (3) would yield highest comfort and be easiest to loosen and restraint two (2) would yield least comfort and be most difficult to loosen. The results are as follows._

_Comfort level:_

_Restraint three (3) was most comfortable. Subject suspected as much. Upon release, no marks were left on skin._

_Restraint two (2) was least comfortable. The plastic was tight with little to no give and the cotton rough. Should be noted that 2 was also the most inexpensive restraint and that dominant needed to cut subject free. Upon release, left skin tender and mildly abraded. John (dom) wasn’t pleased with results of restraint two (2), quoted: “Clothesline doesn’t make good bondage gear.” and “we’re never using that cheap rubbish in the bedroom again.”_

_Restraint one (1) was highly comfortable and light on skin. Left no marks._

_Restraint strength:_

_Restraint two (2) was most effective at restraint. Suspect lack of give in the material contributed to this. Mild pain levels. Level one (1) skin abrasion. Tight knots._

_Restraint one (1) was also highly effective. The rope was rough enough for the fibers to cling reassuringly yet not rough enough to cause pain or abrade skin. Suspect that even with moderate ‘wriggling’ subject would not be able to escape. Knots tightly._

_Restraint three (3) was least effective at restraining subject. Subject is certain one could ‘wriggle’ free given enough time and lack of supervision on John’s (dom) part. The nature of the slippery cloth yields to being easily sloughed off skin. Doesn’t knot tightly._

_In conclusion, subject’s hypotheses were correct. Restraint one (1) was highly favored by both subject and dom in terms of comfort and restraint. Subspace was reached again. It is becoming easier for subject to enter subspace and seems effortless on John’s part to put subject in subspace. Subject orgasmed via freely offered manual stimulation. Note to self—semen tastes foul._

_Social bonds between dominant and submissive also increased via banter re: Hob Nobs._

_Subject finally had foresight to perform a blood test—_

 “-You’re clattering up a storm there, love.” John said from across the desk. “Writing a book?”

“No.” Sherlock murmured. “And compared to how you type, five words a minute would be ‘clattering up a storm.’

“Arse.” John muttered.

“Cock.”

“Tosser.”

“Wanker.”

They went silent, grinning at each other, then both dissolved into giggles like school boys. “C’mere,” John patted his lap. Sherlock hopped up and went around the table, letting out a shout of surprise when John pulled him down so he was sitting on his lap.

“I’m too big!” He yelped, nearly falling backwards.

“I’ll say.” John palmed his crotch.

Sherlock kissed him gently on the lips. John kissed back and Sherlock swung his leg over so he was straddling his doctor. They kissed furiously and John was just going for his trousers when—

_Bleep-bleep!_

Sherlock’s head snapped up. “A case!” He reached back, scrabbling across the detritus remnants of their late lunch for his phone and nearly upsetting John’s mug of coffee in his haste.

_Got something. Interested? -GL_

 “A case.” He swung off John’s knees, the dom succinctly forgotten, as he texted Lestrade back. John sighed down at his half erect cock. “Not yet, buddy.” He muttered at it.

_Details. Address. — SH_

 He paced into the kitchen, then paced back into the sitting room, then back into the kitchen.

_Bleep-bleep!_

_A leg w a shoe on and arm. Just off the Knightsbridge stop in the skip behind Harrod’s. —GL_

_On my way. — SH_

 “A case?” John asked.

“Yes!” Sherlock grabbed his Belstaff. “Come on, John!” He flung the doctor’s jacket at him. “The game is on!”

* * *

They got off at the Knightsbridge Tube stop and wound their way along the crowded pavement towards the south side of Harrod’s. They made a quick turn down an alley behind a little overpriced cafe, per Lestrade’s directions. A faint mist had begun and the air was dusted with microscopic water droplets. Scotland Yard had dragged out some floodlights, brightening up the dank alley to a midday gleam. John pulled his sub aside before they got too close.

“Listen,” John said, staring him in the eye. “I don’t want you to be unnecessarily rude. Remember that conversation we had on discipline? Consider this a rule.”

Sherlock’s face turned stony. “If they’re rude to me, I’m going to be rude back.”

“I would expect nothing less. Just don’t instigate, alright? Let’s keep it civil.”

Sherlock nodded quickly and they strolled up to the scene.

“That was fast.” Lestrade mumbled. John buttoned his jacket and eyed Sherlock’s Belstaff enviously. An unseasonable chill cooled the air and it was only going to get colder as afternoon morphed into evening. Hopefully Sherlock could deduce quickly. Yellow police tape surrounded a rusty old skip. A few bright evidence markers dotted the concrete here and there and a coroner’s van was parked, the examiners ready to take the body away when the police were done.

“Hello Freak.”

John bristled. He remembered Donovan from the circus case. She had called Sherlock ‘freak’ then too and he didn’t like her.

“Sergeant Donovan.” Sherlock greeted, his voice honey and bile. He ducked under the tape she lifted for him.

“You’re _still_ around?” She said to John, glancing him over. “Does he,” she gestured at Sherlock, “keep following you home?”

A few other officers around the scene looked up, intrigued at the delay.

Sherlock glanced back at John and said in a clear voice, “he’s my dominant, Sally. Did you not notice the last case we worked?”

A laugh shot out of Sally’s mouth, but she quickly sobered when she saw neither John nor Sherlock laughing. “Is he serious?” She said to John. “What, did you lose a bet?”

John had never punched a woman in the face. When he and Harry were young they would hit each other and wrestle, but never in his adult life had he punched or even wanted to punch a woman in the face until now. His parents had raised him better than that, but at the raw expression of shameful pain on Sherlock’s face, John’s fist almost flew. Almost. The urge to sock Donovanacross the jaw took every fiber and ounce of willpower he had to refuse. He flexed his hand a few times and took a deep breath. His inner dom roared in rage and he grit his teeth.

“No.” He said coldly. “I asked him to be my submissive and he graciously accepted. May I get by?”

She stared at him, looking like she was waiting for a punchline.

Sherlock sneered and strode back towards them, a pissed off expression darkening his face.

“Didn’t make it home last night, Sally?” He peered her over from head to toe and made a face. _“Anderson?”_

Sally looked away as a few officers in the vicinity glanced up in delighted shock.

“How long before you scare this one off?” She nodded at John, eager to shoot a barb back at him.

“Hey!” John barked. Donovan and Sherlock fell silent and everyone looked away. “Sherlock and I are not your business, Sally. We’re here to solve a case. Not discuss love lives. Where’s the body parts?”

She seemed surprised, but she lifted the tape and permitted him past. Every officer on site was staring, watching as John walked beside Sherlock up to where the leg and arm lay on a blue tarp. A stained brown boot was beside the leg. They both crouched down to get a better look. “Didn’t realize I would be taking center stage.” John murmured at his sub.

“Ignore them. They’re idiots.”

“John, right?” Lestrade said, crouching beside them. He was holding a paper cup of coffee and John’s mouth watered. “You bailed this one.” He nodded at Sherlock.

“Your wife, Lestrade—she’s dating a P.E. teacher.”

“Sherlock.” John said.

“He’s younger than you.” Sherlock continued, glancing at the body.

“What did we talk about?” John said to him, a warning note in his voice.

“Yeah, cheers for that.” Greg muttered.

“And you’re putting on weight because of it.” Sherlock grinned and Lestrade stood up and walked away.

“We are talking about _that_ at home!” John hissed at him.

“What?” Sherlock blinked. “It’s true.”

“Just do your deductions.” John stood up and went to the DI. “Sorry, Greg. He’s…”

“I know how he is.” Greg sipped his coffee. He seemed unperturbed, but John knew the comments must have stung.

They both looked down at the limbs. Caucasian. Most likely male, from what he could tell. “What do we know?” John asked.

“Ask the maestro.” Lestrade nodded at Sherlock. The detective had already slipped on some gloves and was running two fingers over the ragged edge of bloody thigh flesh before examining the shoe. He regarded it for a moment, then focused on the toes. He grunted and moved to the arm, examining the fingernails for what seemed like an inordinately long amount of time. Lestrade stood and stepped back, tapping John on the shoulder and gesturing him to step back as well. John moved back towards the brick wall, giving Sherlock room as he stood up and stepped elegantly over the arm, crouching again and rolling it to its side to examine the elbow.

Lestrade sipped his coffee and glanced sidelong at John. In the years Greg had known him the detective had never brought Seb or any other dom to a crime scene before and here John had not only bailed him out of jail, but was now here at another crime scene. He wondered what John had that Sherlock deemed scene-worthy or even _life_ -worthy. He tended to complain that most of the Yard personnel got in the way, with ‘most’ usually meaning everyone except himself and the corpse. Him willingly bringing another live body along was interesting and that John was still willingly spending time with Sherlock was something to be noticed as well. The doctor wasn’t much to look at. He’d be lost in a crowd, as ‘blending in’ seemed to be his default setting—the polar opposite of the tall detective.

“Anything?” Lestrade called after a few moments of Sherlock jumping around, scraping underneath the fingernails and examining the contents closely and checking things on his phone.

“A bit.” He said in a smug voice. John rolled his eyes, a fond expression on his face. Lestrade sipped his coffee to hide his surprise. Maybe John really was different. Lord knows Sherlock needed a dom with a spine made of steel and a low capacity for bullshit.

Sherlock kept talking. “Your victim—what’s left of him—is male and clearly Caucasian. Young-ish too, likely under 35 or 40.”

“It’s a good thing you’re here.” Anderson muttered. “Otherwise we would never have known that.”

“Does anyone else hear a dog barking?” Sherlock said, his voice pointed and sneery as he glared at the other man.

“Sherlock.” John said quietly in admonishment.

_“Anyway.”_ Sherlock turned away from the forensic tech. “He probably worked as a repairman of some kind, maybe fixed home appliances or the Tube.”

“How on earth did you work _that_ out from an arm and a leg?” Lestrade asked.

“Look at his nails!” Sherlock crouched down beside the hand and Lestrade and John joined him. “Cuticles clearly not well kept, nails jagged and bitten off. Grease and oil,” he gestured to the thin edges of the nail and the dark gunk built up around and under the roughly kept fingers. “The loose skin around his knuckles as well is filled with the same greasy material and has been for some time. This man is obviously not an office worker nor is he unduly diligent regarding hygiene. Calluses on his fingers and here on his palm indicate he works with his hands—likely using tools. Who works with their hands in a greasy, oily environment? A mechanic or repairman of some kind.”

“Fantastic.” John breathed.

Sherlock glanced up, surprised, and gave his dom a shy pleased smile.

“If that wasn’t enough,” he said in a haughty tone to Lestrade, “his feet prove my theory.”

“Of course….” Lestrade glanced dubiously at the solid brown filthy boot.

Sherlock stood and let out a long huff of irritation. “For the love of—look at his foot—look at the shape of it. He has pes planus.”

“Fallen arches.” John murmured.

“And this is a very particular brand of work boot that compensates for fallen arches. It’s sturdy and filthy with what appears to be the same substance that’s under his nails. His toenails are clean enough—he clearly wore shoes at all times while surrounded with this oily grease. Look at his knee—rough skin at the top of the tibia, just under his patella. He spends a lot of time on his knees, something dear Donovan here knows all about—” he waved a vague hand at Sally, prompting another scolding, “Sherlock!” from John.

The doctor’s tone surprisingly sent a small thrill through Sherlock’s belly but he pressed on with the deductions. “Knees, boots, fingernails. He’s a mechanic of some kind.”

Lestrade shook his head and jotted some notes. “You wouldn’t happen to know how long his body parts have been in the water or where the rest of him is, would you? Or if he’s a dom or sub? Anything else?”

“John, what do you think?” Sherlock asked in a perfectly polite tone.

“Wh—me?” John spluttered.

“Yes. You’re a doctor, you’re familiar with reading dead bodies. What do you think?”

“Um,” John glanced at Lestrade, looking for permission.

“Oh go ahead.” He handed over a pair of gloves.

John pulled them on and crouched by the leg, focusing on the ragged, scabbed flesh. Sherlock was silent, letting him work. He really wasn’t used to working with dead bodies, persay, but he had a leg up on the average layman.

“Right.” John cleared his throat. “I’d say not more than three days in the water. I agree with the age range—bloke’s probably not more than 35. A medical person didn’t make these cuts.”

“How so?”

“The femur, it’s scored and scratched to hell. The blade that cut through was very sharp, but the killer had no idea of anatomy. The muscle and skin is jagged and flayed.” John pulled at the epidermis. “A sawing motion was probably used. A serrated knife. Right handed?” He glanced up at Sherlock and the detective got close, tucking his coat around himself as the breeze picked up.

“Yes.” Sherlock nodded. John looked at the leg some more.

“I’d say too that he was brunette or black-headed, going by the color of his arm and leg hair. As to where the rest of the body is…I have no idea but if I was a murderer, the Thames is an obvious dumping ground.” John looked up at all of them. Lestrade nodded, lost in thought as he looked down at the limbs. Sherlock beamed with delight, his chest puffed up and proud.

Lestrade scribbled some notes, muttering in thanks. Anderson wandered back over and started taking tissue samples.

“Text me when you know something.” Sherlock strode off the scene, lifting the tape himself.

“Uh, good to see you again.” John nodded at Lestrade, not sure what to say. The officer gave him a lazy salute and a small smile before he turned back to the limbs. John jogged to catch up with his sub. The coroners were now swarming the limbs to pack them into the truck. John trotted after Sherlock, giving the back of his sub’s head a cool glare. The deductions had been brilliant, yes, but his tone and manners and the way he treated Lestrade left a lot to be desired. John was reluctant to give him the tongue-lashing he deserved in front of the people who were essentially his coworkers. Fortunately, they had a flat for that sort of thing.

 


	15. Jazz Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They learn more about the case and John remembers some things he wish he could forget.

“Sherlock.” John said, closing 221’s door behind. He froze and let out a little sigh, just absorbing the flat’s cozy warmth. The detective swept up the steps, not sparing a moment for John or the welcoming heat. He followed his sub, promising himself a cup of something hot before he did anything else today.

He jumped up the steps and strode straight into the kitchen, flipping the half full kettle on and grabbing a mug. He rubbed his hands together and blew on his fingers as the water boiled.

“Tea for me.” Sherlock called. The leather sofa creaked as Sherlock lay down.

“I don’t think so.” John muttered. Sherlock didn’t hear him. He didn’t deserve tea, the rude arse. He could stand in the corner as far as John was concerned. In fact, that sounded like a pretty good punishment for a rude submissive.

He poured a mug and took a nice long sip, exhaling in delight at the scalding liquid and steam.

“Sherlock,” he paced into the sitting room. “We need to talk.”

His sub was laying serene and still, his hands steepled under his chin.

“Sherlock.” John snipped.

A languid, “hm?” erupted from his throat.

“Sit up.”

“No.”

“Sherlock!” John snapped his Captain voice into place and his sub shot up into a sitting position, staring at him with wide eyes.

“We need to talk.”

He looked at John’s hands, instantly noticing the single mug. “Where’s mine?”

“You don’t bloody deserve any!” John ground out.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“You were awful to Lestrade.” John sat beside him, his tone marginally softer. “What did we talk about before? About you being rude?”

Sherlock pouted and reached for John’s mug, intent on stealing a sip—

“—Nope.” John held it out of reach.

“Donovan was rude to me!” Sherlock snapped.

“Yes she was but I’m not talking about Donovan. I’m talking about Lestrade! You can’t just deduce embarrassing things aloud about people—and that was completely uncalled for, what you said to him.”

“Oh, John.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“No, Sherlock. I won’t have it. I told you at the police station—no sub of mine is going to be rude.”

“The police station…?” Sherlock frowned.

“When I bailed you. I said I wouldn’t allow my subs to be so rude, and if you roll your eyes at me again you’re going over my knee.”

“I wasn’t _that_ rude.” Sherlock groused.

“You were plenty rude.”

“John, they’re idiots.”

“No they’re not.” John said.

“Sometimes they are!” He yelled. “Everyone is an idiot.” He tugged at his hair in frustration.

“Hey. Sh….” John patted Sherlock’s leg. “Stop that.”

“I need to go to my mind palace.” Sherlock jerked his leg out of John’s reach and curled up again—

“—I’m not done talking with you.”

“I’m done listening.” He grumbled into the cushion.

“Oy!” John slammed his mug down and stood up and Sherlock twisted his face out of the sofa, looking at John with wide eyes.

“I have a case on, John!”

“That doesn’t give you an excuse to be so disrespectful!” He snapped down at him. “You’re already getting punished, don’t make it worse.”

Sherlock gulped. He hadn’t seen John properly angry in a long while, not since when he bailed him out of jail—and oh yes, Sherlock definitely remembered that day. John’s lips were darker, his eyes flashing. His mouth was set in a thin line and his hands had curled into fists. It was pleasing in a way to see him like this. Dominant and feathers ruffled. The sub in him that had been coaxed into the light sang out in response to John’s dominance, but the thought of punishment—possibly that red paddle—gave him pause.

“M’ sorry.” Sherlock muttered. “I shouldn’t have said that to you.”

“Thank you.” John said, exasperated.

“I need to organize the information.” Sherlock pleaded. “You want me to solve it, don’t you?”

“Of course, but we need to talk first because your rude habits are apparently going to be causing some issues.”

What the hell was this? John watched his sub carefully. Sherlock was never so argumentative about accepting a punishment. He’d been fine with the paddling at the bedsit, and they had discussed and agreed upon rules. He wondered if there was something going on, or maybe Sherlock was just excited about this case.

The sub let out an aggravated sigh.

“Working the case is fine,” John said in a softer tone, not wanting upset him more, “—of course it is, but I want you to be respectful and pleasant to all the personnel involved.”

“Other people slow me down.” He groused.

“And you will be polite to them none the less.”

“What do you care?” Sherlock asked. “Why do you care if I treat them like the idiots they are?”

“Because you’re my sub and your behavior reflects on me—and no one likes to be insulted, Sherlock. Especially police officers.”

Sherlock grumbled to himself.

John closed his eyes. If Sherlock was going to insist on being an arse to the cops, John was going to need to draw the line somewhere.

He folded his arms and stared down his sub on the sofa, his body language and expression conveying exactly how displeased he was with Sherlock’s comments.

“Not now, John.” Sherlock’s voice was low and breathy. “The _case._ Don’t you see? The case takes precedence over everything else. Let me organize first, then you can teach me a lesson.”

“Nope.” He said in a stern tone. “Get up. On your feet.”

“No!”

“Sherlock Holmes!” John used his Captain bark and Sherlock jumped to his feet.

“Get in the corner.” He pointed at the spot behind the red armchair. “Fifteen minutes.”

_“Fifteen!?”_

“Now!”

Sherlock hesitated, then remembered the damned paddle and scuttled over there.

“Stand there. Fifteen minutes. No complaining. No fidgeting.”

Sherlock groaned. “It’s so long—”

“—Ah!” John held up a finger. “Do you want twenty?”

“No. This is a waste of time, John!”

“Quiet.”

“The murderer is out there—”

“—One more word out of you that’s not your safeword is getting you thirty minutes!” John bellowed.

Sherlock crossed his arms and stared at the wall.

“Hands behind you. Clasp your fingers.”

Sherlock folded his hands over his sacrum and finally, finally went quiet. John took a deep breath. Boundary testing, that’s what this was. So far they’d had a pretty easy go of things, all things considered. Sherlock obeyed with a general minimum of fuss and any fuss was met with scolding that usually turned into groping and orgasms. Sherlock had been happy to be away from his dick of a former dom and wasn’t giving John any grief because of it. Now though, it seemed he was testing his dom to see how hard he’d have to push before John pushed back.

John could push back pretty damn hard.

He sat down at the desk. He opened his laptop and began peck-pecking at his blogto document the new case.

Sherlock huffed and shifted.

_Peck peck-peck-peck._

He rolled his head around his shoulders.

“Hold still.” John told him. “Back straight and don’t huff or sigh anymore. Tell me, why are you over there?”

“Because I was rude to all of them but mainly Lestrade.” He mumbled.

“Yes, good, and I’ll not tolerate it. Why _were_ you so awful to him?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Just felt like it, I guess. I was excited about the case.”

John tutted in disapproval. “Eleven more minutes. Quiet.”

Sherlock stared at the wall. This was so boring! This was waste of precious time! It was like John didn’t care at all that someone had been dismembered. He rolled his eyes and tried not to sigh too loudly. He fiddled his fingers, snapping them quickly.

“Sherlock.” John snipped. “ _Hold still._ If you move again you’re getting a smack.”

Sherlock scowled at the wall. A smack. How childish. He reached up to massage his temples—

_Slam!_ The laptop lid went down and Sherlock turned his head, watching John storm towards him. He grabbed his shoulder, pushed him down, then, _smack!_ His arse blazed and he winced.

“Be still and quiet.” John commanded, still holding his shoulder. “Do you need another?”

“No!” Sherlock spat.

_Smack!_

“Do you really think now is the best time to give me more cheek and terrible attitude?” John asked. “You’re smarter than that, Sherlock. Much smarter. This…whatever this is, stops now, understand?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Answer me.”

“Yes, John.”

“Alright then.”

The doctor let him go and started to walk away—

“—John, I’m always rude to them, it’s how we interact.”

“Not anymore.” John said. “Look at me.”

Sherlock turned around and saw his dom with his arms crossed tight, staring up at him with a less-than impressed expression. “I don’t want you to be a paradigm of manners, love. Sally I let slide because she was an arse first, but what you said about Lestrade was bloody uncalled for. Do we need to revisit our conversation about when I rein you in?”

“No.”

“Okay then. Stand here for ten more minutes. I mean it. You _will_ get the paddle if you don’t listen to me.”

“Yes John.” He sighed.

John made a twirling motion with his finger and Sherlock turned around again, clasping his hands.

Five minutes later, he was humming.

“Are you honestly humming right now?” John asked him. “You must want me to paddle you.”

Sherlock fell quiet.

“Thought so. You just added five more minutes onto your time. Now you’re back up at ten.”

“What?!”

“Hush!”

Three more minutes went by. Sherlock twisted his head to crack his neck and John ignored it. This was turning into an ordeal. For _both_ of them.

A minute later, Sherlock huffed and sighed. John cleared his throat and the sub went silent.

He finally managed to not fidget or moan for the next whole six minutes and John stood up from his computer and stood beside him. “Time’s up.”

Sherlock turned out of the corner, his face a weird mix of pouty and mutinous. John hugged him. “Good boy.” He stepped back and looked into Sherlock’s eyes. “Alright? Are you okay?”

“Yes.” He muttered.

“Let’s not do that again, yeah?”

He made a face at that but hunched himself into John and hugged him.

“There we are. You’re free to go to your palace now.” John stroked his hand over his back. “Sally was wrong, you know.”

“About…?” Sherlock leaned away from him.

“You being a freak. You’re not.”

“John, I’m fascinated by crime scenes and I own my own skull—two, actually.” He glanced at the bison head. “I’ve only ever been with one dom in my life—and I couldn’t even handle _that_ —and I prefer spending my weekends experimenting on severed limbs rather than partaking in pub crawls.” He took a deep breath. “That’s not normal.”

“No.” John said, coming closer to him, slipping their hands together. “Not normal is someone who doesn’t appreciate a genius detective solving her police case in the blink of an eye. Not normal is an adult who calls another adult names like children on a playground. And there’s nothing wrong with those other things you said.” John squeezed his hand and brought it up to his lips to kiss. “There is nothing wrong with _you_ , understand?”

Sherlock sighed.

“Besides.” John said. “They’re not entirely true anymore.”

“What?” Sherlock looked up.

“You _have_ been with more than one dom and I’d say you’re handling it perfectly.”

Sherlock stared at him, letting the words sink in. Dammit if he didn’t always know what to say to make him feel good.

“Why are you still here, John?”

“What do you mean? Do you want me to leave?”

“No. It’s just that everyone else would have by now.”

“I’m not everyone else.” John growled, pulling Sherlock into a hug.

“No.” Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s solid body and sighed. “I’m beginning to see that.”

* * *

Sherlock was at the table the next afternoon, typing up another entry in his journal. His fingers were barely able to keep up with the flow of information and data spewing from his brain as he graphed his blood test results from the sample taken after the bondage session and compared the data to previous experiences with Seb. The blood chemistry varied greatly. His time spent with John in bondage starkly contrasted with the data he’d gathered after Seb had fucked him into the mattress. His time with John yielded higher levels of oxytocin, which was integral to the bonding process. Endorphin levels had been high and he wasn’t surprised at that. That was likely the cause of John nibbling on his chest for a bit. Sherlock grinned at the screen as he detailed serotonin and dopamine readings too.

This was becoming the longest entry he’d ever typed and he was barely halfway through. He found that he genuinely _enjoyed_ John’s company and he enjoyed that the dom seemed to be so interested in _his_ comfort. He rubbed lotion into sore skin and checked how tight the ropes were. He was fine with cuddling in bed and the days spent together were strewn with sweet little touches—a hand on his waist, brushing hips, a nuzzle into his neck or a kiss on the cheek, often accompanied by the words ‘gorgeous,’ ‘amazing,’ ‘fantastic’ and the like. That Gordian Knot of feelings that was so constricting a few weeks ago had unraveled and his view of John in his life was much clearer now.

The corner time last night had been tedious as all hell, but afterwards, once John had gone to bed, he’d made a nice big space in one of the parlors in his palace for this case. He’d stashed all the relevant information about the limbs before passing out on the sofa for the night. This morning, after kissing John goodbye and watching him head for the Tube to get to the clinic, he’d also jotted physical notes on yellow lined paper and pinned then up on the black and ivory wall in B’s sitting room above the sofa. Fortunately John hadn’t insisted on a ridiculous punishment that would have taken even more time today. The case, The Work, was first priority now.

He looked up at the wall at the meager, yet thorough, notes and sipped his tea. His phone chimed on the pile of papers beside him. He grabbed it, thumbing open the message:

_Stop ignoring me. —Sebastian_

 It was like a barrel of ice water dumped over his head and the sort of stomach-drop roller coaster sensation. Sherlock made a face at the phone and quickly swiped around the screen, adding Seb’s number to the ‘blocked call’ list. There. He should have done that ages ago. His fist clenched around the phone as he reread the text, along with the other ones from him that were saved in his inbox. With a growl, he stabbed out a curt reply:

_Leave me alone._

 And jammed the send button. There. That would put a stop to it. Seb wouldn’t even be able to write back since he put his number on the blocked call list. He typed up his entry again, scowling at the screen as his fingers slammed across the keys. After a few moments of this he shot away from the table and wandered to the window, glancing down at the street. Customers at Speedy’s, a few cars rolling by. The door downstairs was locked, right….? Of course it was. It always was. If he didn’t lock it or John didn’t lock it, then Mrs. Hudson would.

So far, John didn’t know about the texts and Sherlock intended to keep it that way. He’d debated briefly about telling him but reasoned it wouldn’t do any good. John couldn’t stop Seb from sending them and it would only irritate him to know that he was getting these messages. He’d probably get jealous, and Sherlock didn’t want him jealous. Seb was always edgy and defensive about other doms, threatened by Lestrade and even _Donovan._

His phone dinged again.

“Leave me alone.” He growled. He grabbed the phone, intent on hurling it across the room, but saw Lestrade’s name on the display.

_Ran the vic’s DNA. Got a name. Going to interview his dom—want to tag along? —GL_

 Sherlock saved his journal entry again and closed the program. He texted back:

_Of course. Send the address. —SH_

_I’ll pick you up. Be there in a few. —GL_

He went to the bedroom to change out of his dressing gown and into dark trousers and a suit coat, throwing his Belstaff on. A car pulled up outside and the horn blared twice and Sherlock swept out the door into the late grey day.

* * *

“Where is it?” Sherlock said, getting into the front seat and slamming the door behind. The car smelled like coffee, cool fresh air, and Lestrade’s cologne.

“Hello to you too.” Lestrade grunted. “Victim’s name is Jeffrey Dixon. He’s a sub—”

“ _Obviously,_ if we’re going to interview his dom.” Sherlock snipped. Seb’s text had put him in a terrible mood.

“He’s a car repairman.” Greg added pointedly.

“Ha—I was right.”

They sat in silence for a moment, idling at the curb.

“At this rate, walking would be faster. Are you waiting for permission?” Sherlock gestured broadly to the street.

“John?” Greg asked.

“Not coming. Let’s go.”

Greg blinked. “Did he…?” He was going to say some variation of “dump your deducing arse” but refrained.

Sherlock sighed. “He’s working.”

Greg responded by putting the car in gear and heading out into the traffic. “Just seeing if you’re okay.” He mumbled. “You’re in a bigger strop than normal— _is_ everything okay? Rude as hell is typical, but you’re not normally this defensive. Did I piss you off?”

Sometimes Lestrade’s marginal observational skills were annoying. Sherlock scowled. Seb.

“It’s fine. Everything’s fine. It’s not you.”

“Good. Jefferey’s dom is called Alicia Dunn. They were engaged to be married. She works at the same car dealer ship Jeff did.”

“Hm, an office romance.”

Greg gave him a few more facts before they pulled up to a brick two story home south of the river. Sherlock stepped out into the air tinged with the scent of brine and walked around the front of the car. “Now remember,” Greg said, slamming his door closed, “she just lost her fiance, so be nice.”

“I don’t do nice.” Sherlock told him.

“I bet John would tell me different...”

He said it so quietly that Sherlock almost thought he misheard him. He glanced at the DI, who looked both amused and slightly worried, like he was afraid Sherlock was going to verbally tear him apart for his comment. He was right though, Sherlock was certain, and his expression softened. John would no doubt sing his praises. That he was even still in Sherlock’s life—and _moving in_ no less—said as much.

“Are we expecting her to be in Defense?” Sherlock asked as they strode up the walk.

“No. An officer talked to her this morning. She’s expecting us and confirmed on the phone she wasn’t in Defense.”

Sherlock’s arm tingled from the incident with the dom and the vase and he hoped Lestrade was right.

Lestrade knocked on the wooden front door and a teary, red-eyed woman answered. She was in an oversized grey Tshirt slipping off her shoulder and black yoga pants. Her brunette hair was shiny with grease and pulled back in a messy pony tail.

“Ms. Dunn?” Greg held up his ID and spoke in soft tone. “I’m DI Greg Lestrade. This is Sherlock Holmes. We’re with Scotland Yard, may we come in and ask you a few questions?”

“Sure.” Her voice was thick and hoarse from crying. “They said someone would be coming by.” She stepped aside and they both went in. The house was modest, cozy rather than flashy with lots of dark wood accents and comfortable furniture. There weren’t many walls, giving the whole space an open feel. A pile of heaped laundry was on the floral print sofa and some children’s toys were strewn by the television. The floor needed washing and a good scrub over the windows wouldn’t be amiss.

“Do you want anything to drink?” She offered, bringing them into the kitchen and gesturing at the table for them to be seated.

“No thanks, Ms. Dunn.”

“Alicia.” She said, clearing her throat. She poured herself a glass of water and tucked some loose hair behind her ear, curling up on a wooden kitchen chair across from Greg. Sherlock elected to stand, and he glanced around the kitchen. Some photos were on the fridge and he peered at them. Someone’s dog in a park. A man who looked a lot like Alicia with a couple children. A few shots of Alicia smiling with a dark-haired white male partner. He had a collar on his neck and grease under his fingernails in the photo and Sherlock knew instantly that it was Jeff.

“Why did you not go into Defense?” Sherlock asked, interrupting what Greg was asking.

Alicia stared at him. “I was.” She said. “My brother helped me through it. I was only in Defense for a day, but I _loved_ Jeff!”

“No one’s saying you didn’t.” Greg soothed. He gave Sherlock a warning look and went back to his questions. Sherlock moved past the fridge, taking in the detritus items on the counter top while keeping an ear on the conversation. There were some salt and pepper shakers shaped like cars. A pile of dishes in the sink, ready to be washed. An inexpensive white blender and an expensive stainless electric kettle. Some papers were piled over the grey laminate counter and Sherlock eyed them. Junk mail in one pile. Take away menus from a restaurant called _Tandoori Garden, Shin’s Fish & Chips,_ a place called _Page Two_ , and another one from _Kyoto Tower_ sushi. An invitation to a child’s birthday—presumably from the brother—and a coupon for a home cleaning service. A paycheck from the dealership was off to the side, addressed to Dixon.

Sherlock went over to the kitchen table where Alicia’s tears had started afresh. She didn’t seem to be the killer, given that she went into Defense. It was nearly impossible to fake that response to a loved one’s loss, though there were plenty of black market drugs available that would put a dom into Defense artificially. Completely illegal of course, but once in a while a professional athlete would get caught with Defense drugs in their systems and suspended and Sherlock knew from his homeless network that fighters used it too. He’d indulged once, just to try it, and he’d been ill for days after. It was possible someone else at the dealership was the killer—jealously was a huge motivator for murder.

“Did your boss approve of your relationship with Jeff?” Sherlock asked.

“Sam was fine with it. Jeff and I worked in different areas. He was out in the garages and I’m on the floor, so we didn’t see each other except at lunch.”

“Did Jeff work with many other doms?”

“A few of the guys in the garage are doms, but there’s other subs too. Do you think he was cheating?!”

“Or maybe someone else was attracted to you and wanted Jeff out.”

“Sherlock…” Greg rubbed his forehead.

“I would _never_ cheat on him.” She said.

“Did anyone else there have a problem with your relationship? Any other managers or employees?

“No.” She said, disgusted. “Look, everything was fine between us. We were going to be married next autumn. There’s some…some psycho out there who killed my sub!”

“And we’ll find whoever did that.” Greg jumped in and rested his hand on hers on the table. “We will find who did this.”

She nodded and wiped her nose and Greg stood up, pacing over to Sherlock and grabbing his elbow, striding with him down the hallway. “Outside.” He said firmly.

“What? Why?”

“You’re antagonizing her.”

“She didn’t do it.” Sherlock hissed.

Greg dropped his voice lower. “And you know this…?”

“The bin is filled with used tissues—clearly she’s been crying. The sink is filled to the rafters with mugs and dishes, but no pots or pans. She’s having lots of company over but not cooking meals. Given the take away menus strewn about and the whole general mess of the place, she’s ordering food to be delivered—of course she is, she’s mourning. She doesn’t want to cook. People she’s close to and comfortable with have been coming over with meals too and acting as moral support in her time of loss. And she’s wearing one of Dixon’s shirts.”

“Fine.” Greg said. “We’re still going to check her out but she’s likely not the killer. She’s about one step away from punching you in the face though.”

“I’ll talk to his coworkers at the garage tomorrow.” Sherlock said, remembering the address from the paycheck. He glanced at the clock on the wall. It was well past quitting time, they’d be gone for the day now. Bugger. “They might know more.” He said.

“Fine. Tomorrow, meet Donovan there at ten.”

Sherlock huffed in irritation that he was going to be saddled with an _officer_ on this investigation, and Lestrade went back to the kitchen. Sherlock paced out the front door and hailed a cab. He’d get there early. He needed to interview those mechanics _without_ the Yard’s interference.

* * *

John pushed into B and trudged up the steps. His leg was hurting again for the first time since…well, since that first case with Sherlock. His shift had been full but boring. Mostly. A young veteran had come in for his annual. John had blinked at the titanium tube and foot coming out of his left knee. Not because of the injury itself, but because just the sight of it had been enough to make his shoulder hurt and the memories of Afghanistan fizzle across his nerves. They’d talked for a few minutes about the war and injuries and fortunately it sounded like the young man had a strong support group and would be okay, in the long run.

He glanced around the dark flat. No Sherlock. Probably off doing something for the limb case. He hoped his sub was okay. Yesterday’s punishment had been unusually tense, but maybe Sherlock was just distracted. This case was like a new toy for him and he was excited about it. John made a pot of coffee and drank it hot and black, then turned on the telly. He’d nearly died after getting shot. Even once he was at hospital in Kandahar and the wound was stable, he’d caught an infection that had nearly taken his life. The weeks after getting shot were just a fevered haze of pills and injections and lots of doctors talking above him. He’d almost lost the arm. He flexed his hand and rubbed the muscle around the scar.

Eastenders was on but he wasn’t really watching. He thought of texting Sherlock but decided he wanted to be alone, even though he felt a little bit lonely and sad. Sherlock could bounce through the door in moments or not until the small hours.

John jumped through the channels, looking for something to take his mind off his sore leg. Calling Ella and making an appointment, or at least talking with her, would probably be smart. He couldn’t be arsed. Maybe later. He settled into the pillows and watched and tried to forget.


	16. Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a bad night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all the people who are still reading this! Your comments make me so happy :D

_John was on his knees in a tundra of white steaming sand, the heat of it billowing up around him. It stretched out in every direction around him and dissolved into a hazy horizon. The sun was blazing hot above, so bright when he looked up that he couldn’t even see the blue sky. Beads of sweat dribbled down his neck and back. He was in his army fatigues and his shirt was sticking to his chest. In front of him, crimson blood stained the grains like ink blots dripped over a page. There was a trail of blood, leading away from him. Someone was hurt. Someone might be dead. John struggled to his feet, only to fall back down as his knee gave out. He looked at his leg, or rather, what was left of his leg. There was nothing but a stump of healed, sewn up flesh below his knee. No foot. No shin. John gulped and looked back at the blood trail. It wasn’t his. He would just have to crawl._

_The sand burned his palms and flew up into his face, dusting his cheeks and getting gritty in his eyes. His balance was wonky without the use of his missing leg, and it took a long time to move forward. The trail of red splashes was shining in the sunlight, and though he had no idea where it lead or what was at the end of it, he knew he had to keep going. He passed bodies as he crawled. Dead soldiers he didn’t recognize. Their faces were obscured by decay and John had to swallow down bile when he glanced up at the maggoty, rotting flesh. Their dead hands were outstretched towards him, asking for help. Too late. He put his head down and focused on the trail. How had he lost his leg? He couldn’t even remember. That wasn’t important though. The important thing was getting to the end of this meandering line of blood. Someone was injured badly and he had to get there fast if he didn’t want that person to end up dead as well. The trail lead to a heaped lump of a person in white shorts, balled up in the sand. His skin was deathly pale, almost glowing in the light. John crawled to him as fast as he could and put his fingers to the neck to feel for a pulse. Nothing. He rolled the person over and cried out in shock. It was Sherlock. Dead and covered in blood._

_“Sh-Sherlock…” Tears sprang to his eyes and a horrendous pain tore through his shoulder. He screamed. Then the sands opened up, the sun disappeared and he fell into a pitch dark void._

 

“John! John! Wake up!”

He jerked awake, staring blindly around the dim bedroom. He saw the window and the armchair in the corner, but nothing looked familiar. There was a hand grabbing his good shoulder, insistently shaking him. He smacked it off with a raged growl and shoved the person beside him into the headboard. The wood bashed against the wall with a tremendous _bam!_ and John was up on his knees, jamming his assailant into the headboard and holding him firmly in place. He panted hard, and the person under his hands didn’t struggle.

“John.” The deep voice filled his ears. “You were having a nightmare. I woke you up. It’s me, Sherlock, your sub. You’re in London, on Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson is our landlady. You worked a shift at the clinic yesterday. You take your coffee without sugar and write a blog about our cases. You..”

John gradually relaxed as the stream of facts stamped out his panic and he gradually, horribly realized where he was and what he was doing.

“Oh God.” John let Sherlock go as if he’d been scalded. His sub was breathing hard, eyes wide, and John felt his own heart beating like a bass drum. “Sherlock.” He breathed, glancing him over. “I, oh God…I hurt you.”

“No.” Sherlock said firmly. His face was pale with alarm and sleep-worn. He looked okay, just scared. “You didn’t hurt me at all.”

“I almost did!” John snapped. He put his feet on the floor and rested his face in his hands, taking deep breaths. That had been awful. He was still sweat dampened and warm. The sheet was twisted on the bed and he must have been thrashing around a lot to have woken his sub. His leg was throbbing and his head felt fuzzy and heavy.

Fabric rustled as Sherlock moved slowly behind him and got out of the bed. John listened to him walk across the bedroom and down the hall to the kitchen. The faucet ran for a moment and Sherlock returned with a glass of water. He handed it to John and the doctor gratefully accepted. He drank the whole thing and tried not to shake too badly. That was the second time he’d dreamt about Sherlock dead in his dreams. What did it mean? Anything? Did his subconscious think his sub was going to die? Sherlock took the empty cup and put it aside, then briskly tugged the pillowcase off John’s pillow. John wondered why for a second, then he realized his face was wet. Christ, he’d been crying in his sleep. He wiped his eyes as Sherlock dropped the case in the clothes hamper and found a new dry one. He slipped it over John’s pillow and got back on his side of the bed, laying down with his hand outstretched in invitation.

John glanced at his hand, then his face. Sherlock waggled his fingers and gave his dom a small smile.

“M’sorry.” John mumbled. He wasn’t sure why he was apologizing. For grabbing Sherlock in a blind panic or for waking him up in the first place or for even having the nightmare at all.

“It’s alright.” Sherlock whispered. “Lay down with me?”

John sighed and laced their fingers together before he crawled back under the covers. He scooted close to his sub and kissed the back of his hand, then he snuggled close to his chest. Sherlock wrapped his arms around him, holding tight. John took a deep and tucked his face into the crook of Sherlock’s neck and sighed happily when long familiar hands stroked up and down his back, soothing and reassuring. John had no idea what he’d been saying in his sleep but Sherlock seemed to understand that he simply needed to be held. He was grateful for the lack of conversation and after his sub fell asleep, he lay awake until the room grew grey-pink with dawn, listening to Sherlock breathe and taking comfort from it.

* * *

Sherlock opened his eyes the next morning and was instantly wide awake. The case. The mechanics. John! He sat up. The bed was empty. He was torn between wanting to run and talk to the mechanics and wanting to spend the whole day doing anything his dominant wanted. He bit his lip, then jumped out of bed and pulled his dressing gown on before heading to the sitting room. John was at the desk. The curtains were drawn and the room was dark except for the lamp glowing in the corner. The telly was tuned to some silly game show and John was typing at his laptop. Sherlock glanced around the space, taking in the details. He’d read about this in the PTSD books. People suffering from it sometimes preferred the curtains be drawn and the room dark. Sherlock cleared his throat to ensure John would know he was there and he went to the kitchen to get tea. There had been no mug on the desk, so he made John a cup and brought it over. He carefully put his hand on his dom’s shoulder and the man relaxed, reaching up to touch him.

“You didn’t sleep.” Sherlock said to him.

“No.” John’s voice was tired and rough. His leg was still hurting. “Couldn’t. Didn’t want to hurt you again.”

“You didn’t hurt me last night, John.”

“But I could have. I was like an animal!” He growled, angry with himself and angry that he’d lost control.

“John.” Sherlock knelt beside him and leaned on his knee and looked up at him. “You would never hurt me. You were frightened. It only took a few seconds for you to become aware of your surroundings again.”

“It was still too long!” John jerked his leg away. He didn’t like people touching it when it was hurting. Sherlock stood up, mildly stung at the rebuke and annoyed that John wasn’t seeing reason. It had just been a dream. A figment. A story. He wanted him to get over it so they could work on the case together, but he knew logically that it wasn’t that simple.

“I need to talk to the mechanics.” Sherlock said. “If you’d like to come with, you may.”

John looked up at him. He didn’t want Sherlock to leave. Not at all. He wanted him nearby. He was familiar and safe and John didn’t think of the war so much when he was nearby. For God’s sake, Sherlock had been _dead_ in his nightmare last night and as John looked at him now, breathing and living in front of him, he wanted so badly for him to stay right here forever and never leave his sight again. He knew he was being maudlin. Nightmares were always a mixed bag in terms of his mood the next day. Sometimes he stayed in bed for hours, other times he needed to get out and get his blood pumping in the form of jogging or lifting weights. Sometimes the dreams would bring out his dynamic and he would need to sub or dom to get his head on right. Generally one or the other would suffice, but he was annoyed to realize that the aftermath of this particular dream made him desire to submit to a dom.

He’d gotten out of bed around five and spent most of the morning trying to ignore the urge. He was domming Sherlock for fuck’s sake. There was no way he could sub for anyone. Sure there were clinics and offices where that service was offered, but he didn’t want to. How could he go to some cold office when his sub was here, warm and alive? He didn’t want to indulge that way. He could just take an Equivo but it wouldn’t be the same. Manufactured doses of measured chemistry weren’t the same as the real, pure thing. He sighed quietly. He was spoiled. He was so used to domming Sherlock and the easy way between them that the thought of taking a pill to indulge his other side was depressing and boring. He wanted to kneel down and nuzzle his face into someone’s palm and not make any decisions.

“I want to stay in today.” John told him.

“Fine.” Sherlock went back down the hall to get washed and dressed and John stared moodily back at his screen. He had sort of hoped Sherlock would insist on staying with him, but John was hardly going to beg. He wanted to keep what little pride he had left.

The sub came back down the hall fifteen minutes later, clean and dressed.

“How long will you be gone?” John asked.

“As long as it takes.” Sherlock shrugged. He was annoyed, John could tell from the set of his shoulders and the quick, jerky movements of his hands. He pulled his coat on and John stood up, coming to him and hugging him. He breathed in the scent of his neck, the smell dizzyingly relaxing. “Be careful.” John whispered.

“Yes I will.” Sherlock pulled away and went down the steps. John peeked through the window and watched him hail a cab and disappear.

* * *

Sherlock’s cab pulled up to the garage twenty minutes later. Donovan and the other yarders weren’t in sight. Good. Sherlock paid the driver and strode over to the mechanics garage beside the dealer’s offices. Three men in grease-covered overalls were outside at the side of the shop. Two of them were smoking and laughing together. The third was leaning on the wall, typing on his phone. A few cars inside were hoisted up and there were tools laying about. Clearly the employees were on a smoke break.

“Do you need help?” One guy broke off from the group and spoke to Sherlock.

He eyed the man for a moment and pulled a cigarette from his pocket. “Do you have a light?”

“Yeah, sure.” The guy offered his lighter and Sherlock eyed his fingernails and knuckles. Filthy, just like Dixon’s had been.

“Thanks.” He lit up and took a few puffs, handing the lighter back. “I heard what happened to Jeff.” He said, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

“Jeff?” Hus companion asked. He reached up to scratch his eyebrow and Sherlock glanced over his hands. Also filthy.

Sherlock blinked. “Your coworker? Dark hair—engaged to Alicia?”

This sparked more interest, and the other man looked up at Alicia’s name. “You mean Jazz?”

“Jeff Dixon?” Sherlock tried again.

“Yeah, that’s Jazz—where’s he at? No one’s seen him since we went to Whistler’s Pub.”

“When did you go to the pub?” Sherlock asked, taking another drag.

“Oh…” the first guy thought for a moment, and pulled off his hat, rubbing his fingers through his hair. “‘bout three days or so?”

Sherlock made a mental note that it fit the time frame.

“How many people work in this garage?”

The first man eyed him suspiciously but the one with the phone was eager to give answers.

“Just us and Jazz.”

“Was it just the four of you that went?”

“A few of us, yeah—where is he?” All of them were watching Sherlock and he took another puff.

“I hate to tell you this, but he was murdered.”

“ _What?!”_

“You’re full of _shit_ , mate.”

“Prove it!”

At that moment, Donovan rounded the corner.

“You’ll see very soon that I’m not.” Sherlock finished the cigarette and rubbed it out in a nearby ash tray.

“Ah, Holmes.” Donovan sauntered up to them and the mechanics eyed her lustily. “Boss told you to wait.” She said, ignoring them.

“Boss isn’t here.” Sherlock said primly.

She turned to the mechanics, her ID flipped open.

“He really was murdered?” One of them asked.

“I’m afraid so.”

“I think I’m done here.” Sherlock gave Sally a smug wink and turned to stride away from the scene.

“Hey, wait.” She took his arm and pulled him aside. “What did they tell you? You were supposed to wait for me!”

Sherlock grinned at her annoyed face and tugged his arm out of her grasp and strode away. “Car grease!” he called over his shoulder.


	17. Dynamic Duo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock helps his dom and the boys spend an evening together. More evidence reveals itself in the case and John is less than thrilled with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update is so late (but this chapter's long and fluffy, so there's that)! RL was very busy these last few days.

Sherlock hailed a cab, sliding into the leather seat and directing the driver to Baker Street. He pulled out his phone and, against his better judgment, texted Mycroft.

_I need CCTV footage. —SH_

_Footage of what? —MH_

_Whistler’s pub, three days ago. —SH_

_I’ll see what I can do. —MH_

 He put the phone away and drummed his fingers along the armrest, waiting impatiently for Mycroft’s reply. It was a long shot, but it was possible that the killer would be in CCTV footage. If there was a camera near the pub, maybe ‘Jazz’ had walked out with someone, or the murderer could have followed him. It was worth a try at any rate. Footage had broken cases in the past. And any extra work that he could create for Mycroft was always a bonus.

The cab pulled up to 221B and he got out, paying the driver and bounding up the steps. John was nowhere to be seen, and the flat was still dark. The telly was off now, so it was quiet, and Sherlock turned a light on and looked to his wall notes. It was unlikely that any of the mechanics were the murderer. Their surprise at Dixon’s death was genuine and all of them were covered in grease—more than three day’s worth of grease. The killer would have needed to scrub his hands of the blood. Jazz’s colleagues’ hands were too filthy. Even if the murderer had worn gloves, their shock had been palpable and honest. He jotted some notes and put them on the wall, then glanced around. Where was John? He dipped into his mind palace and checked the weekly planner in the bedroom where he kept John’s memorized work schedule. It was blank.

Hm.

Normally he kept track of all of John’s work shifts. It seems he had forgotten to do that this past week. That was unlike him. Not long after they’d first started dating, he made a point of hacking his dom’s laptop to get his schedule so he would always know where John was. Today he had no idea, and that bothered him. Sherlock glanced into the kitchen. No. He looked at the desk and saw John’s closed laptop and a sticky note taped to the top of it. A phone number was written down, along with the word ‘landlord.’ John must have called him today. He was moving in, after all. Sherlock wondered suddenly if that’s where John was. Maybe he was spending the night away. Maybe he thought he wouldn’t have nightmares in his own flat—away from Sherlock. John had been moaning his name last night through his tears. Sherlock gulped. He wouldn’t be surprised at all if John was away for the night.

Or forever.

He wandered down the corridor towards the bedroom. The loo was dark and the door open and he peered into the bedroom. There he was, asleep in the center of the bed in a white Tshirt and boxers. Sherlock exhaled a long sigh and leaned against the doorway. John was here. John was in their bed. Good. Good signs. He stepped into the room. There was a newly opened bottle of Equivo on the bedside table, along with a package of painkillers. Sherlock wondered why on earth John would need the Equivo. He was domming, so didn’t that eliminate the need? Sherlock looked down at his doctor, then got into bed behind him. He didn’t move. He scooted closer and rested his chin on John’s shoulder, then blinked in surprise. John’s wrists were bound loosely with some red rope, his elbows bent and his hands resting on a pillow in front of his face. Sherlock looked closely at his dom’s face. He looked peaceful and it was unlikely he’d thrashed around much this time. Last night had been the opposite. Sherlock had jerked awake when John’s elbow found his chest. Unsure of what to do, he’d woken him. He’d seemed so distressed.

The ropes on his wrists made perfect sense. John wasn’t a _dominant_ , he was a _switch._ He hadn’t needed to take the Equivo during their time together, so he must have been getting what he needed through his dominant role in the relationship. Now, the presence of the new bottle of meds lead him to believe that John must need to submit. Sherlock frowned in thought. _He’d_ never wanted to dominate anyone. He had no real world experience with actually feeling the urge to flip dynamics the way John did. He’d been born a submissive and he’d always enjoyed the way he was able to manipulate dominants to get favors in school and later in life, for case evidence or drugs. He might have vaguely wondered at times what it would be like to dominate someone, the same whimsical way one would wonder what it was like to be able to fly. He found the stillness of submission helped with brainwork. It was almost a meditative thing for him.

Switches were obviously different. John wasn’t hard set into one single dynamic the way he was. He hadn’t anticipated that John would possibly want to sub while they were together. And sub for who? Did he have a dom? He didn’t like the thought of that at all. Could he take care of it himself with some self bondage? Sherlock knew all about techniques to indulge one’s dynamic alone. He wondered if he could help John, or give him some pointers.Or even…he could try. He could try domming. Would John accept? Would he get upset Sherlock was even offering? He worried at his lip and carefully got out of bed, leaving and closing the door gently.

Case-wise, he couldn’t do much more until he had footage, and Molly was still running trace DNA. It was unlikely there would be a match. There wasn’t much to go on in this case. Not yet anyway. Until Mycroft got back to him, he had some time. He made a quick cup of tea and took his laptop to the sofa. He piled some pillows and settled back, then searched for everything he could on switches and dynamics. He even brushed up on PTSD nightmares.

Eventually, he heard stirring from the bedroom. He looked at the clock. Nearly two hours had passed. John appeared out of the loo in the hallway, rubbing his eyes. He glanced up and saw Sherlock on the sofa and smiled slightly, then turned into the kitchen and flipped the kettle on. Sherlock listened to him make tea, then retreat back to the bedroom. He must be really tired. He put the computer aside and stood up, heading after him. He wanted to be near his dom.

John was sitting on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands and his elbows on his knees. The bedside lamp was flooding washed out light across the floorboards and John and the rumpled bed. Sherlock paused in the doorway, then crept in and sat beside him.

“Feel better?” He asked.

John shrugged and Sherlock rubbed his hand up and down his back.

“The nightmare still?”

John nodded.

“Does the Equivo help?”

“Not really.” John’s voice was raspy, despite the tea.

"It's because you're a switch, isn't it?" Sherlock asked. "You need to sub but you have no outlet."

John looked up at him in surprise. “How the hell did you figure that out?”

“Obvious.” Sherlock took John’s hand, turning it over to reveal faint rope marks on his wrist. “I’m familiar with these marks myself.” He said. John swallowed. “And the new bottle of pills makes it clear as well.”

“Yeah, well.” John pulled his hand away. “Good for you, you figured it out. Your stupid dom can’t ignore the nightmares. God, Sherlock, even if you wanted me to dom you right now in a scene, I don’t think I could.”

“I’m not asking.”

“But I’m your dominant!” He snapped. “This isn’t supposed to happen!”

“Why not?”

John gave him a frustrated, “Hm?”

“You say it’s not supposed to happen. But why shouldn’t it? You’re suffering the effects of the nightmare and PTSD. What makes you think that however it manifests itself isn’t correct?” Sherlock was glad he’d just been reading about all this. The words were still fresh in his head and far more sentimental than he was used to. “What’s the logic behind what you’re thinking?”

“I thought I would have snapped out of it.” John said in a small voice. “I’m usually okay by now.”

“You can’t snap out of wanting to sub.” Sherlock told him. “Believe me. Cocaine doesn’t do it, and neither will sitting here in the dark.”

John smiled softly.

“You need to submit, John.”

“I, I guess I could go to a clinic.” He sounded disgusted and Sherlock took a deep breath.

"I could….try?" It came out kind of wonky, both a statement and a question.

John pulled back, looking up at him. “Domming me?”

Sherlock nodded, feeling like by suggesting this, he was diving off a cliff into water, though he had no idea how deep the water was or whether or not it was swarming with sharks.

"That wouldn't be fair to you." John said.

"Why? I'm suggesting it."

"Because you're a sub. You shouldn't be forced to top your own stupid dom. Do you, I mean, you don’t know how."

“Teach me.” Sherlock shrugged.

John pursed his lips.

"You don't need anything harsh, correct?" Sherlock said. "You're not looking for a bullwhipping to turn off or to perform a publicly humiliating task?"

"No." John said boldly.

"You simply need to take some orders and forget for a bit, yes?"

John nodded.

“I can do that.” He said.

"Sherlock, really, you don't have to. I can just watch telly and eat leftovers…" John rubbed a hand through his hair, even as he felt the pull of obedience and submission.

“That won’t help.” Sherlock told him firmly. “We both know it won’t. You’ve taken care of me plenty of times. Why won’t you let me return the favor?”

John was quiet for a moment. “Fine. But we’re keeping it really simple.” He looked his sub in the eye. “I need this.” He swallowed. “No experiments. No jokes or anything.”

“Of course.” Sherlock murmured. Damn. It would have been interesting to see if he could perform some sort of pain-perception experiment while John was spacing, but no matter.

"Take off your clothes." Sherlock stood, his hand lingering in John's as he gave the order.

The sub in him was eager to comply and he looked up at Sherlock with a pained, pinched look.

"John." Sherlock said. "I loathe repeating myself."

The doctor paused. Should he? Sherlock was his sub, but….

“Doctor Watson.” Sherlock’s voice was firmer. “I will not say it again.”

John pulled off his shirt and trousers. It felt weird for the positions to be reversed, but he was more just giddy that he was going to get to submit to someone he knew and trusted.

"Fold everything." Sherlock said. John did, the corners of his clothes crisp and neat and military. He set them on the bed and then stood at attention, awaiting orders, and it was here that Sherlock paused. What now? What should he have John do?

“Good.” Sherlock said. “Good lad.” He felt like an idiot, but John seemed to be responding. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

He hesitated again. What was it that he should do next? Sherlock had simply never paid that close of attention to technique when John was domming him. He was always just happy to respond and happy to jump into subspace. How on earth had John gotten him there?

“Safeword.” John mumbled. His eyes were still closed.

“O-oh, yes. Choose a safeword, John.”

“Red for stop. Yellow for slow down. Green is continue.”

“Yes, excellent.” He paused again, then thought of the box. “I could use accessories on you.” Sherlock mused aloud and watched for reactions from John. “Perhaps some rope and a blindfold?”

John nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Sir? Hm. “These things are in your box, yes? May I get them?”

“Yes.” John murmured.

Sherlock went to the wardrobe and knelt down, pulling the box into the light. He rummaged a moment and found a black blindfold and the red rope. He went back to him and took his hand, kissing the back of it. “With me.”

Sherlock brought him to the sofa. He sat and patted his knee like John did for him and the doctor dropped down, hugging Sherlock's left leg, his face buried in his knee.

"Goodness, you need this." Sherlock stroked his hand through John's hair and he let out a shaky sigh. "Hush…" He stroked rhythmically. "Here." He took a pillow and handed it down and John shoved it under his knees. "Your leg. I don't want you to be uncomfortable." Sherlock said. "We'll just sit like this for a bit, take the edge off, alright, darling?"

John nodded.

“Let’s just get this blindfold on.”

John lifted his head and Sherlock placed the blindfold over his eyes and tied it around his head. John pressed his face to his sub’s warm leg again.

“Hands clasped behind you.” Sherlock told him. “Wrists together.” John pressed his hands together behind and Sherlock leaned down, tying the rope around them and making a fat knot. He realized belatedly that he didn’t know much fancy rope work. When John bound him, he’d done up his arms in some kind of pattern. Sherlock had only really done self bondage that didn’t leave room for beautiful knots and designs. The rope looked paltry and ineffective on John’s wrists and Sherlock wondered if he should have used cuffs instead. Oh well, too late now.

The detective sat up and pulled his laptop onto his thighs and clacked away, his hand coming back and now and then to stroke John or rub his shoulder or simply rest in his hair as he read a webpage. After half an hour of comfortable silence, Sherlock wondered if he should have John do something else. He wasn’t in the mood for tea or coffee. Would John want to be hit? He frowned and looked down at the man at his knee. A few marks always helped him nudge further into subspace, but John seemed to be doing fine on his own. He wasn’t sure how hard to hit. His dom wasn’t one of the corpses in the morgue that could unlimited blows. How many hits could John take? He didn’t want to hurt him. How did John know how many times to whip him with the crop or smack his bottom? He supposed that’s what the safeword was for. If John’s judgment was incorrect and Sherlock wanted the activity to stop, then he could stop it. He, the submissive, had the control.

He looked down at John, peaceful and quiet at his knee. He wasn’t sure what to do now. He didn’t want to do something wrong and pull John out of subspace, but he didn’t want him bored down there either. Although, Sherlock reasoned he was never bored when he was spacing. He had half a mind to Google something but John lifted his face out of his leg and wormed his way up to the sofa. Sherlock pushed his computer onto the table when John curled around him in a little horseshoe shape, his side over Sherlock’s thighs and his knees tucked up against the back of the sofa. He rested his head on the pillow under Sherlock’s other arm and let out a long deep sigh, going still.

Okay, well, it was definitely nice having a lap full of naked John but now he couldn’t reach his laptop. He vaguely remembered swatting a newspaper out of his dom’s hands and laying on his lap and wondered if this was payback. He rested one hand on John’s hip and brushed some hair out of the band of the blindfold. He wanted to kiss him but couldn’t reach his face at this angle. Instead he leaned down and kissed his hip. John snuggled closer and Sherlock reached for the remote control. Maybe there would something good on for once. He flipped channels until he found a documentary on mold spores. It would have to do. He settled back on the sofa and rested his head on the cushion, stroking up and down John’s thigh and shoulder.

An hour later, the credits were rolling on the mold spore documentary and the sun was starting to set. Sherlock was starting to wonder how long John would want to be here. One of them was bound to get hungry soon, or need the toilet. John seemed to be thinking the same thing. He stirred and shifted and lifted his head, taking a moment to acclimate.

“Alright?” Sherlock asked.

John smiled and moved to sit up.

“Yes.” John nuzzled up to him and found his lips. He gave him a sweet kiss and Sherlock kissed back. John grinned devilishly and swung his leg over Sherlock’s lap, kissing him again.

“Fine with me,” Sherlock said, “but I want to see you.”

“Please do.”

Sherlock pulled the blindfold off and a pair of warm dark eyes blinked at him. John smiled and kissed him again and Sherlock tugged the knot on the rope, freeing his hands.

“Are you spacing still?” He asked as his dom licked his neck.

“Nope. I’m up.” John was all over him like a squid and he grabbed his sub’s crotch and claimed his mouth with his tongue. Sherlock found he was perfectly happy to sit here and let John grope and fondle and touch him. It seemed the subspace had renewed his dominant energy, strangely enough, and Sherlock wouldn’t mind some submission for himself.

“You’re too overdressed for this, love.” John undid the buttons on his shirt and pulled it off his arms, yanking it away and flinging it on the floor. His cock was stiff and ready and he growled under his breath, nibbling Sherlock’s exposed neck and tweaking his nipple. Sherlock yelped in surprise and John broke the kiss and reached for his trousers next, tugging the button open and yanking the zipper. He stood up and pulled Sherlock to his feet, holding him by the bicep as he tugged his clothes down in jerky pulls. Sherlock stepped out of them and John guided him firmly to the sofa on his front. The detective licked his lips, his sweaty fingers finding the edges of the cushion. He way John was breathing and handling him, Sherlock could tell he was very aroused and feeling very dominant. He was pleased and surprised to find he was a little nervous, a little excited. His cock was flickering to life. John leaned over his shoulder, breathing across his neck and palming his backside.

“That was gorgeous, love.” He murmured. “You gave me exactly what I needed.” He kissed the back of Sherlock’s neck, making him shiver.

“Do you feel better?” He asked, grinding his cock softly into the sofa.

“Yes. In fact, I very much feel like taking you right down into subspace.”

“I’d like that.”

John bit his shoulder, then pulled off and kissed the stinging spot. He stood up. “Stand.” He smacked his sub’s bum and Sherlock got to his feet.

“Get us some water and build a fire.” John commanded.

“Yes, John.” Sherlock went to the kitchen and John stalked towards the bedroom. His submissive side was content and humming peacefully and it was easy to set that part of himself aside and let the dominance roar. He got his box and selected a fat black plug, some fleece lined black leather cuffs, a small, breathable ball gag, and a short length of thin sparkly chain. He also grabbed a thin coiled leather rope and the crop and a flannel and brought it all out to the sitting room. He set it on the table and grabbed the lube they kept in there. Sherlock was kneeling by the fire, getting the kindling hot and strong. A glass of water was on the table and John drank it all.

“Good boy.” He said. Sherlock looked up at him and grinned, then glanced at the items on the table and blinked.

“Should I be worried?”

“Of course.” John put the glass down and grabbed the cuffs. He strolled over to his kneeling sub and stood over him. His cock was hard and jutting out from his body and Sherlock’s was pretty interested too now. John grinned down at him.

“What?” Sherlock asked.

“Just thinking about what I’m going to do to you. Give me your hands.”

Sherlock gulped but raised his arms and John cuffed his wrists and bound them together with the short chain. He grabbed the plug and lube and sat in the green chair, then hauled Sherlock up over his knee. The sub spread his legs and John squirted some gel onto the plug. “This is a big plug for you, love. It’s going to be nice and tight inside there.”

Sherlock lifted his arse hopefully and John rubbed some lube over his hole. The plug tip was narrow and John slipped it inside of him and pushed. He felt his sub relax his muscles and John patted a cheek. “Very good. You’re making it easier for me.” The plug widened and Sherlock shifted and finally the thing popped into place.

“It’s really big.” Sherlock said

“Yes. You’ll get used to it. On your knees, right here.” He pushed Sherlock to his knees in front of him and then grabbed the crop. He scooted up to the very edge of the chair and spread his legs. “Suck me.”

Sherlock did. He leaned forward and licked a stripe up his dom’s cock and John hummed in pleasure. He picked up the crop and smoothed the flat tip up and down over Sherlock’s back and hip. He grunted and sucked him down, getting all the way to the base and bobbing up and down.

“Look at you. You _have_ been practicing. That’s fantastic, love.” John smacked the crop tip down on his bottom and Sherlock tongued his slit. Over and over John cropped his bottom and Sherlock sucked hard and fast. “Perfect…” John groaned. “You’re beautiful like this, all plugged and bound and horny. Ease off, now, I don’t want to come yet.”

Sherlock pulled off his cock and John wiped the flannel over his sub’s wet chin.

“Alright?” He asked. He rested his hand in the dark curls and rubbed his scalp.

Sherlock nodded. John kissed his nose and stood up. “Put your back to the fire and spread your legs.” He picked up the length of thin leather and the gag. He set the gag on the chair and crouched beside his sub. Sherlock stole a kiss and John smiled, tying the leather around his sub’s hard cock and balls as the detective kissed his jaw and neck and face.

“Good lad.” John kissed his lips. “Elbows on the floor in front of you.”

Sherlock leaned forward and rested his arms on the carpet. John tugged his cock back between his spread legs and tied the taut leather to the lower part of the fire grate where it wasn’t too hot.

“Alright?” John asked.

“Yes.” Sherlock muttered. John hovered his hand over Sherlock’s dick, checking the heat. It was definitely warm, but it wouldn’t burn his skin.

“If it gets hot, tell me.”

“Yes, John.”

He held the gag under his face. “I’m going to put this on you.” He said. “If you’re in distress at any point, snap your fingers and I’ll take off the gag and help you out, okay?”

“Yes, John.”

“Snap and show me.”

Sherlock snapped the fingers on both hands.

“Good.” John fit the ball into his mouth and tied the strap around his hair. Then he picked up the crop. Sherlock was gorgeous, bound and bent. The firelight danced over his skin, casting him gold and orange. Saliva was dribbling down his chin from the gag in his mouth and the leather loops around his balls and cock were tight and constricting. He shifted on his knees, the plug up his arse making him feel very full.

John tossed a folded chenille blanket on the floor in front of his sub. “So you have something soft under your legs.” He murmured. He wedged it under his knees. It was denser and much softer than the rough carpet. “Better?” John asked.

A nod.

He crouched down before his sub, curling his hand in his hair and tilting his head up to look into his eyes. “Does anything feel too tight or uncomfortable?” He asked. Sherlock shook his head.

“Good.” John let him stay in that position, getting used to it for a few moments. He picked up the crop and absently trailed it over Sherlock’s backside. The detective grunted and leaned forward some more and John grinned. He _swipped_ it across his cheek, the tiniest little _smack_ on skin and Sherlock shivered. John did it again to the other side, then slapped the flat disk of plug poking out of his bum. Sherlock squirmed on the floor and John smirked when his boy’s cock tried to stir—unsuccessfully, as it was all tied up in the leather.

Sherlock took a deep breath, inwardly grimacing as the drool flowed steadily out of his mouth and onto the carpet. He knew it looked painful and restrictive. The way he was crouched over and bound. If Mrs. Hudson walked in right now she would probably assume he was being punished. He wasn’t though, and honestly this all felt very nice. John’s subspace must have renewed his urge to dom, and Sherlock loved it. He was focused completely on John—on his breathing, on the subtle shifts of denim on green leather, on the fact that his cock was pulled back at a _nearly_ painful angle and the leather wrapped around it was tight and creating a slick of sweat underneath. His mind was blessedly quiet, like a computer in hibernation, ready to leap to life at a moment’s notice but for the time being, just floating and mellow. This was something John wanted and it felt good to oblige his dom. The crop tickled at his balls. He grunted and John chuckled. A towel appeared under his face, dabbing gently at the sheen of saliva coating his chin.

The crop _thwipped_ over his arse again and Sherlock squirmed, his heart starting to pound when John continued whacking him, giving him a mild little stingy spanking. Again Sherlock felt his cock start to twitch and he slipped deeper into his head, feeling the welcome stirrings of subspace at the fringes of his consciousness. Over and over the crop hit his bottom and then John stood up, _snicking_ the crop over back, careful to avoid his spine and the bony parts of his shoulders. Sherlock wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but John finished cropping him and the fire’s heat made every tender spot on his body burn and sting. His cock was harder than ever.

The leather slackened and then John was unbuckling the gag. He slid it slowly out of his mouth, wiping the saliva away again.

“Kneel up.” John said. Sherlock did, straightening. Everything was still fuzzy and hazy and he blinked slowly as John uncuffed him. It was dark outside, and the fire had burned down to little dancing crackles.

Another murmur, “stand, please.”

Sherlock started to stand, then paused as his knees creaked and his thighs cramped. John’s strong hand gripped his arm and Sherlock levered to his feet. He stood there for a moment as John rubbed his legs back to life and cupped the side of his face. “Alright, love?” His eyes were warm and Sherlock nodded. “C’mon.” John picked up the end of the length of leather and led him to the bedroom and pointed at the made bed. “On your back.”

Sherlock obeyed, crawling onto the bed and flopping happily to his sore back. He stared at the ceiling, a warm fuzzy sort of weight in his head that prevented him from thinking too hard about anything. It was nice. John got in the bed then and straddled his face.

“Suck me.” He said. Sherlock opened his mouth and happily took John’s length in. He moaned when he felt the leather tug on his cock, pulling it up. Sherlock sucked harder and within moments John was coming in long spurts into his mouth, thrusting in a shallow rhythm.

“Good.” He breathed. “Good boy.” He slipped out of his mouth and held a tissue to his lips and Sherlock spat. He stood, unwrapping the lead from Sherlock’s cock. The sub shuddered as John handled his sensitive cock, eyes closed and lips red and glistening and John smiled. He was completely in subspace, which was exactly where he wanted him.

He put he coil of leather aside and slid the plug out of his arse. Sherlock hissed and John kissed him. “You’re doing beautifully. Let’s go take a bath now and I’ll bring you off. Stand.”

Sherlock did and he followed his dom down the hall to the loo. John ran a warm bath and helped his sub into the tub. The groan of pleasure from Sherlock’s mouth as he slipped into the steaming water was obscene and John took a deep breath as his brain pumped some more happy dom chemicals into his body. Sherlock was deep in subspace. He felt good and it was because John had put him there. Blue eyes peered up at him plaintively and he held out his hand. John crouched outside the tub and kissed his palm.

“Feel alright?” He asked.

“Very much.” He said. “Get in here with me.”

“I will.” John reached over and opened the cabinet under the sink. He grabbed a couple bottles of scented oil. “These’ll help with your sore back.”

“I like it sore.”

“It’ll just take a tiny bit of the sting out. You’ll still feel it. Hand me that flannel.”

Sherlock passed it over and John dripped some of the clear oil into the water. The scent of sandalwood and something spicy and floral filled the air and John soaped up the cloth, rubbing it up Sherlock’s arms and down his chest.

“Want you in here.” Sherlock mumbled, grabbing John’s wrist.

“Alright, alright.” John managed to slip in behind him and pull him close without sloshing much water over the sides of the tub. His warm back pressed again his chest and John reached for his stiff cock. Sherlock lifted a leg and leaned his head back as John worked his hard dick. It didn’t take long, and with a soft “oh!” he came, spurting all over John’s hand in the warm water.

“We’ll need new bathwater now.” John murmured, amused as Sherlock blushed. They stood up to shower and finish washing and John dried him thoroughly before taking him back to the bedroom. Unable to resist, he pushed him over the bed and peppered his arse with light spanks.

“Oh, John!” Sherlock scrabbled at the sheets, lifting his arse and enjoying the feel of a warm familiar hand on his his bum as much as John enjoyed smacking him. When he was rosy red again, John smoothed lotion onto the skin. They weren’t speaking much at all, but somehow it was fine. John was able to lose himself in his domming in a way he often wished he could have with past subs—and it wasn’t even that difficult of a place to get to. Sherlock was willing and trusting, knowing that John wouldn’t do anything cruel or sudden to him.

“Come on.” John helped him up and they mutually slipped under the blankets. Sherlock curled into him, wrapping his arms around his ribs and burying his face in his shoulder, sliding his leg between his dom’s knees.

“You alright?” John asked.

A nod.

“You sure?”

A nod.

“Thank you.” John whispered to him. “For tonight. I…I needed that.”

A sleepy blue eye looked up at him. “Y’welcome.” Sherlock mumbled.

John kissed his forehead and they drifted off to sleep.

* * *

_*Ding!*_

_*Ding!*_

Sherlock opened his eyes slowly. Sunlight was streaming through the curtains and he was warm and soft and cozy in his bed. They slept the whole night? He hadn’t meant for that to happen.

_*Ding!*_

 He grunted and blinked. His phone. Sitting room. What if it was Lestrade with more information?

“John.” He reached over and flapped at John’s back, buried under a pile of blanket.

“Hm?” He grunted.

“Hand me my phone.”

“Get your own bloody phone.”

It stopped dinging and Sherlock flopped over, smashing his face into the pillow and cuddling into his dom. The doctor rolled over and lifted his arm and Sherlock snuggled into him.

“How’s your backside?” John mumbled, his eyes still closed.

“Sore-ish.” He murmured. John grinned.

“Do you want to get up?”

“No.”

“Me neither….”

They both fell into a doze. Sherlock’s phone lay forgotten in the other room and they missed the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. The creak in the hallway had them both lifting their heads.

“My, my, isn’t _this_ cozy?” Mycroft stepped through the doorway and Sherlock groaned into the pillow.

“Get out, Mycroft!” He wailed. John tucked the blankets down a little further around their cocoon—they were starkers under here and though he was hardly a prude, he didn’t want _Mycroft Holmes_ to see him naked, thanks.

“I have the footage you requested.” Mycroft said, holding up a USB.

“You couldn’t just _email_ it?” Sherlock snarled. He leaned up on an elbow, facing his brother. He wanted to get up, but he was sore and his movements would reflect it. Mycroft could probably deduce everything just by how they were laying, but Sherlock was unwilling to give him extra ammo.

“Sensitive information, brother. I _did_ text you, but I see you were otherwise occupied. Hello John.”

“Hi Mycroft.” John said lamely.

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock made a shooing motion with his hand, “go out, I’ll be there in a moment.”

“Whatever you say.” Mycroft sounded impossibly smug. “Don’t let me interrupt you.”

“Out!”

The older Holmes left and Sherlock stood up, stretching slightly before trotting to the wardrobe. John eyed his splotchy back and bottom. No bruises, and he was moving around just fine. He slipped on sweats and a Tshirt, then threw his blue dressing gown on. “He is insufferable.” He muttered, violently cinching the sash around his waist. He strode out to the sitting room, pulling the door shut behind. John figured there was no point in staying in bed anymore, and trying not to feel too mortified, he threw the covers off and saw the leather rope and plug laying on the floor. Oh hell—Mycroft for _sure_ saw that. And the sitting room was littered with the crop and the lube and the cuffs. John’s mortification increased before he realized in an instant that actually? He didn’t care if Mycroft saw. So he was sleeping with Sherlock. Nothing wrong with that. And so they liked to be adventurous in the bedroom. John planned on being here for the long run so it was best Mycroft become comfortable with the idea of his little brother getting smacked and cuffed and plugged. John grinned, pulling his pants and jeans on, along with a fresh shirt.

He started walking to the kitchen, took two steps, and winced. Oh he was _sore_. He hadn’t knelt like that in an age. His thighs were stiff and his knees sore. His lower back too was a little tight but his shoulder wasn’t hurting a bit and he actually felt refreshed, despite the tight sore muscles. He was sure the dual hit of subspace and domming was the only reason his legs worked at all. He swung by the loo to piss and clean his teeth, then headed straight for the coffee pot. A mug was already poured black and hot on the table. John took it gratefully and sipped. Surprisingly, paper bags filled with breakfast from Speedy’s were on the table and John smirked at the little note from Mrs. Hudson.

_Just some extra from the cafe! Xoxo Mrs. H._

 “John,” Mycroft called from the sitting room, “how is it spending so much time with Sherlock? Hellish, I imagine…”

John came into the room with his coffee. Sherlock was in his green chair, his face haughty as he watched Mycroft. The USB was on the table…right beside the open lube bottle. Oh well.

“Actually he asked me to move in.” John told him, enjoying the surprised look crossing his face. “I said yes.”

“That’s nice.” Mycroft smiled. “Congratulations. It’s a big step. Though you two do seem very…compatible.” He eyed the crop pointedly.

“Yes, it is a big step.” John said. “Could you also please, in the future, refrain from barging into our flat unannounced?” His voice was flat and chilly. “And I don’t know why on earth you think it’s even remotely appropriate to just walk into someone’s bedroom in the morning—but I expect this will be the last time you ever take that particular liberty unless you’re _trying_ to walk in on me fucking your brother.”

Sherlock was giving Mycroft a smug, shit-eating grin. John strode over to the chair and set his cup on the mantle before leaning down and kissing his sub good morning. “Thanks for the coffee, love.” He said warmly.

Sherlock grinned. “You’re welcome.”

Mycroft looked impressed, if not a bit put out. He cleared his throat. “Well, must be off.”

“So soon?” Sherlock drawled.

Mycroft gave him a fake smile. “John. Your request is duly noted.” He nodded, twirled his umbrella, and left the flat. Sherlock stood up and locked the door behind him.

“Hungry?” John asked, coming up behind him.

“Very.”

They both trotted into the kitchen, tearing open the bags and tucking into the eggs and pancakes and bacon.

“Mrs. Hudson is a saint.” John said through a mouthful of pancake. “Pushing aside the fact that our landlady just saw our sex toys in the sitting room. That’s excellent.”

Sherlock snickered. “She might not have noticed. She’s extremely unobservant.”

John wasn’t buying it. He thought Mrs. Hudson saw more than she let on.

“Want to go again?” John suggested, glancing at the lube and crop. They were both shoveling the food like it would disappear and Sherlock put his empty plate down.

“The footage…” Sherlock eyed the USB.

“Let me rub some lotion on your sore spots, then you can look at the footage, okay?” John stroked his arm, not wanting to lost him to the case and the mind palace so early in the day. “I _know_ you’re sore.”

Sherlock paused, then, “alright.”

“Good lad. Bedroom. I want you bare and on your tummy.” John put his empty plate aside.

Sherlock grinned shyly and John gave him a quick pat on the hip to get him moving. He yipped and fled to the bedroom and John stalked after him. Sherlock tugged his clothes off enroute and left them scattered over the floor before he dropped to the bed, grabbing a pillow and hugging it towards his chest. He sighed into the sheets as John opened the wardrobe and pulled a tube of hand cream off a shelf before he climbed over the sheets. He took a moment to admire Sherlock’s body, marked with the crop and no doubt sore.

“Like it?” Sherlock wriggled and John palmed his bottom, grabbing two handfuls but letting go when Sherlock hissed. “Aw, hurts?”

“Yes.”

“Just how I like you.” He squirted some lotion into his palm, rubbed his hands together, and smoothed over his shoulders. Sherlock sighed into mattress, going soft and pliable the moment John touched him. He rubbed the cream into his skin, getting it down his spine and scapula and ribs. He squirted more lotion onto his palm and rubbed it into his bottom, getting it down his thighs and behind his knees. Sherlock spread his legs and John teased at his balls, slipping his fingers up through his crack and getting the lotion _everywhere_. The detective whined into the pillow and the bed shook as he drummed his feet up and down.

“Come if you want.” John said, slicking up and down his crack.

“I….the footage.” Sherlock lifted his head out of the pillow. “I need to see if Dixon is there….”

John’s own building arousal vanished in a wisp and his shoulders sagged.

“Fine.” He said. He got off Sherlock and the detective leaped up, pulling his clothes back on and giving John a peck on the lips before he strode back to the sitting room. John scowled at the bed, but then chided himself for being selfish. Yes he wanted Sherlock all to himself to hold and kiss and cuddle and smack and hug and tie up all day long, but someone had _died_ and Sherlock was the only person who could solve the case quickly. Sure, Scotland Yard would get it done eventually, but Sherlock was their secret weapon and John wanted to play with that weapon all day. It wasn’t fair to anyone.

So he put the lotion away and went back to the sitting room where Sherlock was watching his laptop screen intently, his hands steepled under his chin and the USB in the slot on the side of the machine.

The grainy, silent black and white footage showed the mechanics staggering out of a dark pub doorway. Dixon was with them. They stood there for a moment in conversation and as a group, moved off-frame. Another piece of footage popped up—a different camera from a different angle. It was Dixon walking on his own down a deserted street. He turned a corner and vanished. Another angle from another camera popped up, showing the group, minus two of the mechanics, walking past a late-night chippy and out of frame. That was the end of the footage.

“Doesn’t tell us much.” John murmured.

Sherlock replayed it from the beginning and watched it through again. “We know Dixon left Whistler’s with his coworkers. We can also see that they split apart at some point.”

“Makes sense if they live in different directions.” John added.

“Exactly. Dixon was on his own at one point and this footage appears to be the last video shot of him before he died.”

John glanced at the replaying footage, chilling now knowing that the Dixon he was watching would never live to see another day. Dixon was dark haired and pale-skinned, John remembered that from looking at his limbs. He was tall too, and lean, and John shivered at his incredible resemblance to Sherlock. Grainy footage or not, they could have been brothers.

“He looks like you.” John noted.

“Hm?” Sherlock blinked at the figure on the screen. “Oh. I suppose.” He made note of the streets in the video and stood up, hurrying to the bedroom.

“What now?” John called.

“Search the area!” Sherlock yelled from the bedroom. “There could be something along the route—a clue or a piece of evidence. We know where the pub is, we know where he lives and we know at least one street he took to get home.” Sherlock emerged from the bedroom wearing dark trousers and buttoning up a dark red shirt. John glanced back at the footage paused on the screen. Dixon’s profile was in sharp relief. He really did look like Sherlock but John couldn’t rationalize why it was sticking with him so. Sure, it _could_ have been Sherlock’s limbs on that tarp, but it wasn’t. His sub was safe beside him, pulling his suit coat over his shoulders. “There’s only so many routes he could have taken that start at the pub and use that street to get him home.”

“I’m coming with you.” John said, stepping forward.

“Good. You’ve seen my technique—you know how I work. You might actually be of use.”

“Yeah, ta.” John grumbled. He didn’t want Sherlock out of his sight. Not until that killer was caught. The hairs on his neck prickled in a mild Defensive response to even the idea that his beloved sub might be harmed. No, anyone who tried to hurt Sherlock would have to get through him and his fists and his gun first.

“What about Lestrade and the coppers?” John asked.

“What about them?”

“Shouldn’t they come with?”

“They’ll only slow me down.” Sherlock waved his hand dismissively and headed for the door—

“Come _here_.” John commanded.

Startled, Sherlock paused and turned around, blinking in confusion at the firm tone. John pulled him down for a rough kiss and squeezed the nape of his neck. “Be careful.” He told him. “I don’t want anything to happen to you, love.”

“I’ll be careful.” Sherlock pulled up and pivoted on his heel. “Come on, John! The game is on!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who's reading this story. I can't believe this fic has almost 10,000 hits! I never would have thought any of my stories would get anywhere near 10,000. You guys are awesome :D


	18. Muddy Waters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They take a big step in their relationship and more case information comes to light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to wish a happy belated Fourth of July to all my American readers!

 They took a cab to Whistler’s and split up. Sherlock told him which routes to take (John had to jot notes in his phone, much to Sherlock’s amused annoyance).

“Remember, we’re looking for clues.”

“Yeah, I got that.” John slipped his phone in his pocket.

“Anything you see that seems relevant—”

“—Sherlock! I’ll call you if I find anything.”

“Fine.” Sherlock strode off and John rolled his eyes fondly. Sherlock was adorable when he was on the hunt, all enthusiasm and bright intelligence. He was proud of him too.

John scoured the streets and alleyways. There was only a mile between the pub and Dixon’s house, and there were five ways that Sherlock conjectured he could have gone. Two of the routes made more sense than the other three, but the detective wanted to cover every possibility.

Four hours later, every possible route had been searched and scoured and examined and analyzed and Sherlock had nothing to show for it but frustration.

“Dammit.” He muttered. He popped out of an alley near Dixon’s home and found a bench under a shady tree. Sweat was slick under his arms and on his back and he wiped a hand over his brow. It came away glistening. He sniffed his shirt collar and wrinkled his nose at the scent of car exhaust and rubbish. Maybe John had better luck. His phone made a noise and he eagerly tugged it out of his jacket pocket, frowning at the unknown number. A text. He opened it up and immediately a block of ice dropped into his belly.

_Sherly…I miss you. —Sebastian_

What the fuck. What the fucking fuck—Seb went out of his way to get a brand new phone number just so he could keep stalking him?! It was absurd. It was lunacy. The man needed a hobby that wasn’t _him._ Sherlock ignored the text like he had all the others and sent a note to John—

_Find anything? —SH_

_Bags of rubbish, one stray dog, and a frankly alarming amount of squashed cigarette butts. You? —JW_

 Sherlock growled and clenched the phone hard to keep himself from lobbing it at a passing bus. Maybe Lestrade and his merry men had found something.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, they were back in their flat. John slipped out of his jacket, weary and eying the sofa eagerly. He didn’t have to work today, and an hour or two to watch telly sounded pretty nice. He didn’t like this case. He didn’t like that Dixon looked like Sherlock. He didn’t like how gruesomely he’d been killed. He pinched the ridge between his eyes and wished that the killer was caught and this ridiculousness was all over. Sherlock’s phone chimed and he grabbed it from his pocket.

John watched him stare at the screen and a peculiar expression came over his sub’s face. It was like he’d seen a ghost. John could swear he paled a shade and he slammed out a short reply, then stuffed the machine back in his pocket.

“Who texted you?” John asked.

“Hm?”

“Who was that? Lestrade?”

“What? No, nothing.”

John wasn’t satisfied with that, but he let it be for now.

“How can there be nothing!?” Sherlock ranted. He slammed the door and stormed into the kitchen, roaring in frustration before stomping into the sitting room and rubbing his temples. “No footprints, no articles of clothing, nothing on the bloody CCTV—what’s the point of the cameras if they don’t even see anything, Mycroft!”

Lovely, he was yelling at people who weren’t even here. John sighed and stepped around him to the kitchen to make some tea. One more shrill growl and John heard him collapse on the sofa. He then immediately set on kicking his feet against the sofa arm in a rhythmic _thud, thud, thud_ that creaked loudly on every other _thud_ or so.

“Sherlock,” John called, pouring water into a mug. “Can you stop, please?”

There was no response and the thuds thudded on.

“Do you want some tea?” He called.

Still no verbal response. John dropped a bag in the water and went into the sitting room. Sherlock’s back was to the room and he was still kicking moodily at the furniture.

“Sherlock, can you please stop kicking?” The sound was annoying as hell and John was pretty sure the wood underneath the leather was splintering as he spoke. John was ignored until he snapped out a firm,

“Sherlock!”

He stopped and went still.

“Thank you.” John said. He went back into the kitchen and— _thud, thud, creak!, thud._

 _It’s a game._ John realized. _He wants a reaction because he’s frustrated and bored. And apparently also six years old._ John tossed the bag in the sink and sipped the tea. He was acting like a child who wanted attention from a parent. Fine, Sherlock wanted a reaction? He’d damn well get one. He set the mug down and paced into the sitting room.

“Do that again and you’re getting punished.” John said in a clear voice.

Sherlock stopped kicking and glanced over his shoulder, looking at John with wide eyes.

“How?”

“Kick the sofa and find out—” John challenged, “but I don’t want to hear any complaining if you do.”

Of course, Sherlock gave the sofa arm another almighty kick. _Thud!_

“Get up.” John strode over to him and Sherlock rolled up to his feet, his eyes eager and bright. “Get in the corner.” John pointed. Sherlock obeyed with the merest sigh, walking to the corner and clasping his hands behind.

“Stay there.” John went to the bedroom and opened his box, rummaging until he found two black leather manacles, each with a D-ring sticking off the leather and each lined with lambswool. He knew from experience they were insanely soft. He also grabbed a short length of chain that had a clip on each end. Grinning, he put the box away and headed back out into the sitting room.

Sherlock watched him come into the room, his gaze landing on the new items in John’s hand. He blinked a few times and John crouched beside him, setting the cuffs and chain on the ground. Sherlock watched as John untied one of his shoes.

“Lift your foot.”

He did. John pulled off the shoe and sock.

“John, what are you doing?”

He simply put his shoe and sock aside and untied the other shoe. “Lift.” He said. Sherlock did, and John took off that shoe and sock too and Sherlock stood there barefoot.

“John?” Sherlock said.

He picked up a manacle and buckled it around his sub’s right ankle, then did the same to his left.

“Rotate your foot. Tell me if it’s tight.”

Sherlock lifted his feet in turn and John watched him rotate each joint.

“They feel okay…”

John took the chain and clipped one end to the D-ring on each cuff. Sherlock _could_ walk, but in this way he was effectively manacled and could only hobble a few inches at a time.

Satisfied, John stood up. “You can get out of the corner now.”

Sherlock looked down and tugged at the cuffs. He shuffled forward, the chains clinking, and looked at John mournfully. “What is _this_?”

John gave him a quick kiss on the lips. “If you can’t use your feet correctly, you don’t get to use them at all.”

_“Jo-hn!”_

The doctor strode into the kitchen to retrieve his tea cup.

“John!” Sherlock thundered. John smiled.

“Yes?”

“No!” He stomped his foot. The chain jingled.

“I think so.” John sipped the tea.

“I don’t want it!”

“Ah.” John held up a finger to stop him. “I said no complaining.”

“I can’t walk!”

“Yes you can.” John said reasonably.

Sherlock stepped forward a few inches, then a few more. He shuffled forward and then howled in frustration. John stood there watching him, unmoved.

“Get these off me…” Sherlock whined.

“I don’t want to hear another word about it unless it’s your safeword.” John told him.

Sherlock scowled and shuffled back to the sofa where he collapsed in a tragic heap, tucking his knees to his chest. John watched him, a small grin on his face, before he retrieved his tea and sat in his chair with a magazine. All was quiet and still for a good ten minutes or so.

“John…” Sherlock’s voice was a low whine.

“Yes?”

“Get these off of me.”

“Nope.”

“How long do I have to have them on?”

“I don’t know. How long do you think you deserve to have them on?”

“I think I learned my lesson.”

John grinned. “That’s where we disagree.”

Sherlock sat up and gave John a long-suffering look before he stood up and shuffled to the kitchen, chain clinking along the floor. He took some sheep stomach tissue out of the fridge and sat at his microscope, quiet. John glanced at the time. He didn’t want to leave him chained too long, just long enough to get the message across.

 _Knock-knock._ “Hoo-hoo.” Mrs. Hudson tapped on the door frame and Sherlock scowled. “Come in.” John yelled.

She came in holding a basket with a checkered green cloth draped over the top. “I made some muffins and thought you boys would like a taste.” She set it on the table beside Sherlock and went to their fridge, opening it up and chucking half a moldy apple in the bin.

“Oh great, thank you, Mrs. H.” John got up and flipped back the cloth, taking a thick chocolate chip muffin and biting into it. “This is amazing.” He mumbled.

“Oh thank you!”

“Have one, Sherlock.” John nodded at the basket.

 _“No.”_ He said moodily.

“Someone’s in a strop.” Mrs. Hudson said from behind the refrigerator door.

“Someone’s unhappy about being punished.” John said.

“Oh dear.” She closed the door. “Sherlock, did you upset him?”

“Clearly. He’s punishing me, after all.” Sherlock snipped. He jangled his chained feet pointedly.

“Poor loved sub.” John teased him gently and kissed his temple. Sherlock shied away from it. “Stop. You smell all…muffiny.” _Wait, did he just say he loved me?_

“You’re my favorite muffin.” John said, grinning at the face Sherlock made.

“Oh you two!” Mrs. Hudson blushed and left the flat. “You’re so sweet to each other! Enjoy the muffins!”

Twenty more minutes went by, and when Sherlock was hobbling back from the toilet, he paused in the sitting room. John was on the sofa with his magazine, reading placidly. Sherlock shuffled to the sofa and got on, sitting there and contemplating the chains around his ankles. They were clipped, not locked, and Sherlock could easily unclip himself. He didn’t want to though. John had put the chains there. John should take them off. He glanced up at his dom.

“How can I get these off?” Sherlock whined. “I hate them!”

“If you blow me right now, I’ll take them off.” John didn’t look away from his magazine and he turned a page.

Sherlock looked back at his feet, then grinned devilishly. He slipped to the floor and shuffled between his dom’s legs, pushing his knees apart. John peered around the edge of the page, watching Sherlock scoot closer to the sofa and then reach for his fly. He tossed the magazine aside and lifted his hips as Sherlock pulled his button and zipper, shucking his trousers and pants to the floor. Sherlock knelt up and wrapped his mouth around John’s cock. One hand was braced on his bare thigh as he bobbed and sucked.

“Oohhh….” John slid closer to his sub, his hands finding their way to his dark curly head. “Sherlock, that’s….”

The sub looked up at him, making eye contact as he slid down to the root and up to the tip over and over and over. John smiled down at him and scratched his fingers through his hair. He knew how much Sherlock liked his head touched. When John was good and hard, Sherlock pulled off and rubbed his jaw. “More, Captain?” He murmured. His face was pink and a trail of saliva glistened on his lip and John’s cock jerked.

“Bring me off.” He breathed.

Sherlock leaned forward again and sucked harder, using his tongue and the tiniest amount of teeth in a way that he knew would drive John nuts.

John gasped and humped up into his sub’s warm mouth and Sherlock slid his hands between his arse and the sofa, grabbing John’s bum and squeezing.

“Ah!” He growled out a shout and tightened his hold in Sherlock’s hair, holding him steady as he pumped into his mouth and spurted across his tongue. Sherlock held still as John fucked his mouth with easy, deep thrusts.

“Oh, Sherlock…” He panted. He slowed and went still, clutching Sherlock’s head. “That was great.” He slid back, pulling out of his mouth. “Let me grab a tissue…” He handed one down and Sherlock stared up at him.

“I swallowed it.” He looked surprised.

“Oh, okay.” John smiled and wiped his sub’s sloppy chin, then dried off his own cock. He tossed the tissue aside and kissed Sherlock on the lips. “Thank you, love.” He bumped their foreheads together. “That was wonderful. Let me get these cuffs…”

Sherlock stood up and John leaned down, unclipping and unbuckling and pulling the leather away.

“There we are.” He set them and the chain on the table.

“Did you mean what you said before?” Sherlock asked in a quiet voice.

“When?”

“When, when Mrs. Hudson was here…”

John frowned, thinking. He remembered the tasty muffins but that was it. “What did I say?”

“Nothing. Nevermind.” Sherlock went to stand up—

“What did I say?” John grabbed his arm and stood. He yanked up his clothes and refastened everything. “Are you bothered she saw you chained?”

“No, no.” Sherlock rubbed his hands through his hair.

“Did I do something that made you upset?”

“No, no, you….you said I was loved?” He blurted. He looked away and rubbed his bicep.

“Well,” now it was John’s turn to look away. He licked his lips and felt a blush creeping up his face. He smiled. He had just come down his sub’s throat but _now_ he was blushing? “It’s true.” He said. It was. He’d known for an age. He did love his sub, he was just waiting to see if it was reciprocated. Sherlock seemed happy with him. John didn’t think an unhappy sub would have given him a blow job. Or asked him to move in, which he was doing this weekend. “I’ve loved you for a while, Sherlock.” It was hard to admit, but now that he’d said it, it felt better.

Sherlock was quiet for a moment and John looked up at him, bracing himself for the worst. His sub was just standing there, staring at him.

“Sherlock?” John asked.

Silence.

“Love? You okay?” John went up to him and took his hand. Still no response. “Good God, I’ve broken him.” John mumbled, half serious.

Sherlock blinked a few times, coming back to the present. He leaned down and gave his dom a soft kiss. John was more than fine with this, but he was still unsure about…everything now. Was this an ‘I love you’ kiss? Was it a pitying ‘you fool, what are you thinking?’ kiss? Sherlock pulled up and took John’s hand, then strode to the bedroom with his head held high. John trotted after. Sherlock pushed through the door and kissed John again, then hugged him. His hard cock pushed into John’s thigh and the sub reached around and grabbed his bum, squeezing hard. He widened his legs and inhaled the scent of John’s hair.

“I would very much like you inside of me, Captain.” He breathed.

“I, I, um…”

Sherlock pulled back and started undressing. John watched, nearly struck dumb. A sort of giddy horny heat was looping around inside of him as Sherlock got naked before him and tossed his clothes aside. He got on the bed on his front and spread his knees. He grabbed a pillow and looked over his shoulder and bit his lip. “Please, John?”

Oh God, that look alone was enough to get his cock hard and happy. Sherlock’s naked spread legs, his bottom and balls on full display, his lower lip tucked in his teeth. The doctor gulped and nodded and ripped out of his clothes. His dominance roared and his cock jerked feebly. He’d come not even thirty minutes ago, but he could probably get it up again. Switches had a shorter refractory period than doms or subs and though he wasn’t as young as he used to be, he could probably manage it. Sherlock’s enticing body on display was a hell of an incentive. The sub reached back and palmed his bottom, teasing and delicious.

John licked his lips. Oh boy, they were going to have sex—penetrative sex. He’d wondered now and then about bringing it up to his sub, but he was honestly happy with where their relationship was now. One day in the future he knew he’d like to fuck his submissive, but the tying and the spanking and the fingering and all the rest of it was pretty great too. He grabbed the lubricant from the side table and clambered onto the bed, leaning over him and delighting in the way Sherlock shivered.

“If you want to.” Sherlock mumbled. “I know we haven’t really…”

“Of course.” He growled. “I’ll gladly fuck you.” He rubbed his own cock with one hand, encouraging it back awake. “I’ll happily push into this sweet arse. There’s really not much that involves my hands on your body that I’d say no to.”

Sherlock grinned and buried his face into the pillow. John lifted an an arse cheek aside and pushed two slick fingers around his hole and rubbed. He worked his interested cock with his other hand and bursts of pleasure jolted through his hips.

Sherlock whimpered and lifted his bum.

“There you go.” John growled. “Get that bottom up for me.” John reached down and stroked his cock and balls. Sherlock stiffened nearly instantly in John’s hand. “This gets hard for me now.” John said. “My cock.” He squeezed the shaft and Sherlock nodded frantically, grunting when John added a third slick finger and slammed them in and out. It stung a bit, in a good stretchy kind of way. Sherlock moaned into the cushion as his prostate was brushed. It felt so good to have his dom fill him and use him.

“I have to stretch you.” John said. “You know how big my cock is. If you’re going to take it, it needs to be relaxed in there.”

“Yes, John.”

“Damn right.”

John finally pulled his fingers out and smacked Sherlock’s arse. “Roll over.”

“It’s easier for me on my stomach.”

“I’d like to play with your nipples.” John said. “Up to you.”

Sherlock obediently shuffled over, flopping on his back. His face was flushed and happy and his eyes were dark and aroused. John knelt over him, his cock hard and full. He had one hand on the inside of Sherlock’s spread thigh and the other stroking his calf. The sub glanced at his dom’s cock and his pupils dilated. He spread his legs even wider.

“Good.” John praised. He leaned down and licked a nipple, pleased when Sherlock gasped. “I love you, Sherlock. You’re gorgeous like this. You’re all spread and ready for me, so trusting.”

“It’s because of you.” Sherlock hissed, arching up as John nibbled his other nipple. “I was never like this, John.”

“When we met, you didn’t even want to look at me.”

Sherlock laughed. “I didn’t want anything to do with you or any dom. I hated doms. I hated Seb.”

John made a face. “Don’t say his name.”

Sherlock growled when John flicked his tongue against his sensitive skin. He licked and nibbled his nipples and pinched his bum and Sherlock yelped. John rolled into a seated position on the bed and hauled his sub over to him, pushing him across his knee and peppering his bum with little spanks, getting him pink and pushing him closer to subspace.

“There we go…” John said when Sherlock’s arse was pink and adorable. “Very good. Nice and warm for me. Get in whatever position you want, love.” He lifted his hands and Sherlock slithered onto his belly on the bed, grabbing the pillow close to his chest. He spread his knees and John squeezed a healthy dollop of lube into his palm and slicked himself up. “Perfect.” He slipped a finger inside his bum and felt around. “Nice and loose.” John leaned up and guided his cock carefully inside. Sometimes it took some time for partners to acclimate to his size. He and Sherlock had never done this before so he wanted to be careful. He didn’t need to worry though, as Sherlock shoved back and took John all the way to the root.

Both men let out equally obscene groans of pleasure-surprise. “Excellent.” John leaned over his back, kissing his shoulders and neck and everywhere he could reach. “Well done, love.”

“You’re huge!” Sherlock complained with a smile. He lifted his feet and curled his toes. “My arse feels like it’s going to explode.”

“I feel like I’m going to explode.” John told him. He stretched his arms forward and rested on his elbows and found Sherlock’s hands in the pillow. The detective hummed happily and stroked the top of John’s hand with his thumb. John kissed his shoulders and scruff as he drew out and slid back in, slow at first, then faster and faster as he muttered sweet things in his sub’s ear. He angled himself and nudged his prostate and Sherlock made a high pitched gasping sound, one John hadn’t heard before, and arched his back to ask for more. John gave him more. He rocked his hips, fucking him with fast, shallow thrusts, delighting as Sherlock scrabbled underneath him. The sub reached between his legs to grab his own cock.

“No.” John held his arms tight. “Me first. Then you.”

Sherlock moaned and let his hand flop down. John humped him harder, smiling at the gasping sounds he made. He squeezed Sherlock’s hips and jammed into him, snarling as he orgasmed and spurted into Sherlock’s warm body. He fucked him fast, spending himself completely and then falling still and sweaty.

“God.” John gasped.

“Close, but not quite.” Sherlock winked at him over his shoulder.

John gave him his best dominant look. “For someone with a cock up his bum, you’re pretty cheeky.”

Sherlock giggled and John grinned. He reached around for his sub’s cock, fisting it and pulling. His hand was slippery with lube and Sherlock grunted and ground his backside against John’s hips and a few moments later he smiled when Sherlock spilled into his hand. They sat like this for a few moments, sticky and damp, until John slipped back and out of his body. Sherlock rolled over to face him and buried his face in his dom’s neck.

John wrapped his arms around him and kissed his head where he could reach and they rested there in silence. Sherlock stared at a patch of skin on John’s neck and idly petted his dom’s ribs and hips. He was loved. He’d never been loved before—not by someone he wasn’t related to. _Sentiment,_ part of him sneered at the word as if it was filthy. But he also found he enjoyed it and he rolled around in the feeling like a dog in a pile of old socks.

* * *

 

That night, at approximately three am, Sherlock was startled awake by a desperate keening cry. He blinked a few times and lifted his head, looking in the dark bedroom for the source of the sound. The windows were closed and everything looked fine at first glance. It happened again, to his right, and he knew instantly that John was having a nightmare. His dom was once again crying in his sleep, thrashing at the sheets. His face and neck were sparkling with sweat and Sherlock’s heart crumpled at the horrible, desperate sounds.

“John!” He said. No response. John yelled out again. “John!” Sherlock grabbed his arm and shook it and his dom opened his eyes wide. “It’s me, it’s Sherlock—your sub. You’re in our bedroom in London…” Spewing off facts as they popped into his head had seemed to work last time John had a nightmare, but Sherlock was wary of flying fists and elbows this time. He needn’t have worried. John lay still, staring at the ceiling and breathing hard. He glanced at Sherlock with glassy eyes.

He reached a hand out to touch him. “It’s alrig—”

John wrenched away from his touch and jumped out of bed. "I'm going out."

"Where?"

"I don't know." John yanked sleep trousers on and tugged socks over his feet. Sherlock watched, pained. "I just need air." He grabbed a shirt and stormed down the hallway. There was some rustling and then the door opened and slammed, followed by feet on the stairs and then the door downstairs opening and slamming. Sherlock scrubbed fingers through his hair. He wanted to go after him, but John clearly wanted solitude. Fine. If that’s what he needed, then Sherlock would give him distance. He looked at the empty spot on the bed and rested his hand where John had just been. Still warm.

He sighed and stood up. There was no way he’d go back to sleep. He was wide awake and without John beside him he wouldn’t be able to anyway. He went out into the kitchen and grabbed his phone, wondering if John would want to sub again. He doubted it somehow. Last time, John hadn't taken off out of the flat after the nightmare. He opened up the text thread he had with John and his thumbs hovered over the keyboard. He couldn’t think of a single thing to say. He put the phone down and went to his violin, placing it on his chin and putting his hands on autopilot.

* * *

They were at Angelo’s for lunch the next day. John had returned a few hours after he left, cold and tired, and dragged Sherlock to the bedroom. John had slipped under the covers and pulled Sherlock close, simply holding his sub until he fell asleep. He’d made an eleven am appointment with Ella and Sherlock had waited not very patiently outside the office for the full sixty minutes. Finally John walked outside and Sherlock strode up to him.

“Was it useful?”

John shrugged. “Don’t want to talk about it.”

“Angelo’s is close if you want lunch.” Sherlock suggested. The lure of free carbohydrates and tomato cream sauce was too much to resist, and John laced their fingers together as they strolled the two streets over.

“Anything in the case?” John asked after they’d been seated.

“No.” Sherlock grumped.

Everyone even vaguely related to Jazz and his dom had been interviewed and picked apart but the stories stayed the same. No one knew who had killed Jazz or why. Lestrade was tearing his hair out and last time John had seen him, he’d looked like he hadn’t slept in about forty years. John was finishing off his ravioli when Sherlock’s phone beeped.

  _Got a body. Waterlogged, looks like it’s been in the Thames for a while. Want to come out? —GL_

 The detective had actually ordered some linguine and was even eating it when the fork was abandoned and he was on his feet, leaving John to shovel in the last bites of ravioli and throw down cash for the tip.

“Come on, John!” He shouted from the pavement. He lifted his hand to hail a cab and John ran out of the restaurant just in time to slide across the slick leather seat and slam the door closed before the taxi took off into traffic.

“What’d he say?” John asked. He bit back the annoyance in his tone. He didn’t particularly want to go case chasing right now. Not after his therapy session and not after the violent nightmare he’d had. More sex and a nap sounded perfect but there was no way he was going to sit back while Sherlock went off to dangerous crime scenes to investigate.

“Body in the river.” His gloved fingers were texting the officer back.

“Is it connected to the first one?”

“Oh I hope so.” Sherlock grinned.

“You be polite this time.” John muttered, “ _or else._ ”

Sherlock grinned. “Maybe.”

The cab sped through midday traffic until they got close to the river.

“Just here, please!” Sherlock called. The cab pulled along the muddy edge of the road. Sherlock had the door open before the car had even stopped and moments later he was striding towards the river. John paid the driver—giving extra for the speedy delivery—and followed. It was chilly today and he pulled his jacket collar higher to block the cool breeze off the water. He wasn’t going to complain though. The cold weather meant Sherlock had his Belstaff on, and any weather that was cold enough to bring out the Belstaff was _fine_ with him.

A rusty, grimy red barge that was big enough to carry half the buildings on Baker Street was idle in the brown water. A narrow, long ramp wrapped with yellow crime tape led from the shore to the boat’s dock and Sherlock breezed past the milling officers with barely a glance, thumping up the ramp. John nodded to them and bounded after his sub.

The bright blue tarp stood out on the grey flat dock like a lighthouse in the night and the body lying on it was waterlogged and bloated beyond comprehension. Lestrade and Donovan looked a bit ill and even John hid a grimace before he approached the corpse. Sherlock, of course, was fine with it and crouched beside the decayed head and started examining like it was something he dealt with every morning. The boat’s crew was hanging back, murmuring to each other and not bothering to disguise their looks of disgust and horror.

“Speak, Lestrade.” Sherlock commanded.

“Yes, hello to you to.” Lestrade began, “You’re welcome for bringing you to the crime scene.” He rolled his eyes. “Captain Rose and his crew were heading upstream when he noticed something in the water.”

“Where is the Captain?” Sherlock asked, standing.

“Here.” A tall man with grey stubble and a weather-worn face stepped forward, giving the body another disgusted gaze.

“Why did you pull him on board?” Sherlock said.

“Well, we’d just shoved off and one of my crew, Bert over there,” he gestured with his hand behind himself at a gathered group of sailors, “seen a…a, lump of some kind floatin’ in the water. There’s all kinds of things floatin’ in the water, but this was different.”

Sherlock nodded.

“So he calls me over and I think—it’s a bloke!—a, a person in the water! Maybe he’s alive! So we pulls him up an’ here he is. Didn’t think he was a person up close, to be honest.” Captain Rose glanced down again at the body. “Wasn’t sure what it was or if it was even real, he’s so wet and fucked up. We called the police anyway. I don’t want no trouble, y’know?” Despite the Captain’s reluctance to even look at the body, John got the impression this story would be told in pubs for years to come.

“I see.” Sherlock said. “Certainly he wasn’t alive when you pulled him on board.” He looked at Lestrade. “May I?”

“Of course.”

Sherlock crouched down again and slipped on a blue glove. “I looks like there’s some knife wounds.” He tilted the stiff, spongy head back and eyed the slitted flesh on the neck.

“Male, I’d say, though it’s difficult to tell with half the body missing the way it is…” He looked at John and the doctor nodded, picking up the deductions.

“Male for sure, judging by the height and shape of the body. Caucasian. Dark hair—just like our victim from a couple weeks ago.” He looked at Lestrade. “Any connection?”

“Not yet.” He muttered, scribbling notes. “Though we’re not ruling it out.” He glanced up. “Sherlock, stop.”

The detective was grinning like a loon, his fingers twitching in excitement. “A _serial killer_.”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade warned, pointing at him with his pen “We don’t know anything yet.”

“You lot never do.” Sherlock murmured, staring gleefully down at the body. John cleared his throat pointedly and caught his sub’s eye with one brow raised. He didn’t like this, not one bit. The first victim that looked like Sherlock was bad enough, but two? Serial killer or not, two men had been killed and both looked a lot like Sherlock.

“Was he a sub?” John asked.

“Let’s find out…” Sherlock reached into the victim’s jacket pocket and extracted a plain brown leather wallet. He unsnapped it and carefully flipped through the sodden contents. Donovan came over with a few evidence bags.

“Cash.” Sherlock mumbled. He slipped the notes out of the wallet pocket. “Thirty-four pounds and some change. No credit cards. A student ID from Griffon Community College.” He glanced at it and handed it to Lestrade. “He was young.”

“Owen Allsopp.” Lestrade read aloud. He glanced over the details on the card—birth date, card expiration date. “He’s a sub.”

John shifted on his feet and took a deep, annoyed breath. A sub. Just like victim one. So _if_ there was a serial killer, he was going after dark haired young male subs—brilliant. Perfect. John watched Sherlock look deeper into the wallet. His sub was a _huge_ target here. Not only were the other victims his exact type, but he was _investigating_ the bloody case. The killer would want him out of the way for sure. He wanted to drag Sherlock home, lock the door, and hunker down in the flat protecting him until this all passed and the murderers were behind bars. He shook his head to himself. He didn’t want him on the case. If that made him selfish, then so be it. If that made him domineering and overprotective, he didn’t care. He finally had someone he loved _so much_ in his life and he’d be damned if he just sat back and watched him let him get himself murdered.

“Restaurant receipts,” Sherlock continued. He pulled a soaked purple cardboard card out of the wallet and looked at it.

“Mudd Coffee House.” He said, flipping it over. “Some kind of punch card.”

“Mudd….” John frowned, the name not sounding at all familiar. “Where is that?”

“It’s near the Community College.” One of the sailors, a shorter, younger man, called from the back of the group. The officers looked up and Lestrade beckoned him forward with a crooked finger. The gathered group of men parted, allowing him to come through.

“My mum lives near there.” He said. “It’s an independent coffee place—a, a lot of students go there. They have decent croissants…” He trailed off and looked away from all the interested coppers, then saw the body and shut his eyes.

“Any indication of a dom?” Lestrade put his hand out for the wallet and Sherlock passed it over.

“These are expensive restaurants.” Donovan noted, looking at the wad of wet receipts. “I’m not saying he couldn’t afford it, but not many students would choose to go to _The Fat Duck_. It has Michelin Stars.” She looked at the other receipts. “All these places are really high end. Either Owen spent all his beer money on good food, had a trust fund, or he had someone to wine and dine him.”

“A wealthy dom, perhaps?” Sherlock looked at one of the receipts. “Ah, a Vincent Coel paid with a credit card at _The Fat Duck_ approximately five weeks ago.”

“We’ll talk to him.” Lestrade said, making more notes. “Check out that Mudd place too. He has a lot of punches on that card. Maybe he worked there or someone knew him.”

“He didn’t work there.” Sherlock scoffed.

Lestrade looked up at him, expecting him to continue.

“No, if he worked there he wouldn’t bother with a punch card. He would get all his drinks for free—assuming he drank anything from there at all.” He glanced at John and spoke to Lestrade. “Once you find Coel’s address, John and I will talk to him.”

“No.” Lestrade corrected, “you and John will go to Mudd and see if anyone there knew the victim. Sally,” he glanced up from writing his notes to glance at the Sergeant, “go with them.”

“Why can’t I talk to Coel?” Sherlock asked.

“Because when you interviewed Alicia Dunn, you damn near put her in Defense. _No_.”

“Why does Sally have to come with?” He groused.

“Because this is a police investigation.” Greg told him reasonably, “and Sergeant Donovan is a police officer. It makes sense, yeah?” He pulled his mobile out and put it to his ear, turning away from them.

“You’ll ask Coel the wrong questions!” Sherlock persisted.

“Sherlock…” John warned.

Lestrade whirled around. “You will not argue with me anymore. Either go to Mudd with Sally, or don’t work this case at all.”

Sherlock frowned at looked at John for help.

“He’s right.” John said. “Let’s go.”

Sherlock pouted, but gathered his coat around himself and strode off the barge.

“Sally?” John said. “We’ll see you there?” He didn’t think it would be a good idea to put Sherlock and Donovan in the same car for any length of time. John would probably end up spending the evening thinking of inventive punishments to quell his rude remarks…not that it would be a bad way to spend some time.

“Yeah.” She nodded and said a few more things to Captain Rose.

John jogged to catch up with his sub. “Be good.” He said in a low tone. “You’re toeing the line a bit, love.”

“I’d be more useful talking to _Coel_.” Sherlock muttered.

* * *

They popped out of the Underground near Griffon College and strolled a few streets over to Mudd. Evening was falling, and the little coffee house was half crowded with students getting out of classes and people looking to fuel their night. It was bigger than the Starbucks near their flat, with lots of tables and mismatched chairs in the back. The walls were decorated with brightly colored local art and a hand-written chalkboard menu was above the counter. The air was scented with sweet coffee and the soup of people and the perfume of cooking pastries. Sally was already by the counter, talking to the sullen barista.

“I don’t know who you’re talking about, officer…” he mumbled.

“Tallish guy. Sub. Dark hair—he was a student at the College?” She pulled Owen’s ID—still in the evidence bag—out and showed him.

The barista, a short, rail-thin teen with bad skin and a cap pulled down over his forehead, dunked the steam nozzle into a cup of milk and heated it up with a loud _hssss._ He shrugged.

“Hello?” Donovan was speaking a bit more rudely than was strictly necessary and she turned to Sherlock and John, rolling her eyes and throwing her hands up. Another employee appeared from the back room, tying her apron on.

“Maybe you’ll have better luck with him.” Sally muttered to John. She handed him the bag and headed towards the other employee. John gave the evidence bag over to Sherlock and stood beside the door, out of the way. He didn’t want to be here. He was feeling sulky and irritated and not at all willing to help.

Sherlock glanced at him curiously and beckoned him over. John shook his head. Sherlock mentally shrugged and then focused on the teen. _Student, has an older brother, first year at school, has a large-ish white dog and a female flatmate. Studying biology—no, organic chemistry. A dom._ Sherlock looked him over and glanced and the name tag on his dark apron that he had clearly personally decorated. His name—Callum—was in big letters, and underneath it was a small sticker bearing an image.

“The Shotokan Tiger?” Sherlock nodded at his name tag. Callum looked up, bewildered, then glanced down at the tag as if Sherlock had pointed out a stain on his shirt.

“Wh-what? Oh!” He blinked up at Sherlock, pushing the cap back off his face. “Yeah, I’ve been practicing for years. I’m going to reach black belt this year. Do you practice too?”

“Hm.” Sherlock raised an approving brow. “I do a little baritsu.” He said.

Callum thought for a moment. “I’m not familiar with it…”

“Most people aren’t. How many hours a week are you here, Callum?”

“‘Bout twenty.”

“Would you say you have a good idea of the regular clientele?”

He shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t look that close to be honest. But yeah, some stick out.”

“Does he?” Sherlock passed over the bag with the ID. “Anything at all about him ring a bell?”

Callum took it and examined the card.

“Why does Owen not have this?” He asked.

“He’s dead.” Sherlock said bluntly.

Callum blinked up at him. “Oh…” He frowned at the card. “You know, he might have been the sub who was sometimes coming in with a tall, blond dom.”

“Tall and blonde? Female?”

“Yep.” Callum nodded. “She’s gorgeous. Definitely not a student here and what a dom. Legs up to here…not, not that I’m into doms.” He backtracked and glanced up at him. “I mean, it’s fine for people who are into that kind of thing, but I’m a hundred percent dom and I go for subs all the way.”

“Any idea of a name for tall and blond?”

“No, sorry.” Callum said. “He’d kneel by her feet though.” He tapped the card. “Lucky bastard to get a dom like that.”

“When did she usually come in?”

The door jingled and a loud group wandered in.

“Evenings. Weekends. Never seen her here without her sub though.” He glanced at the customers behind them and Sherlock stepped aside.

Sally came up to him then, looking to be at the end of her patience. “She doesn’t know anything either. We’ve got nothing else to go on.” Sally said. “No prints on the limbs of the first victim, and Owen’s corpse was most certainly too bloated to retain any usable evidence.” She left the shop in a huff and John watched her go.

“Problems at home.” Sherlock mumbled, coming up to his dom. “She’s discovering the horrors of dating Anderson…” Sherlock pulled out his phone and texted Lestrade:

_What does V. Coel look like? —SH_

“Just to be absolutely certain….” He mumbled. His phone chimed.

_Older Caucasian man. Grey hair, blue eyes. —GL_

 Sherlock nodded and put his phone away. “Vincent Coel isn’t the tall blond. Our dead sub may have been cheating.”


	19. Overkill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Several things that have been bothering John come to a head and he takes it out on his sub.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! There's some miscommunication between Sherlock and John in this chapter. I have no idea if any readers will be triggered/bothered, but I'll be blunt while trying not to spoil: They have a scene. Things go somewhat wrong. These things will be resolved in some way before the story ends.

“What are you looking for?” John asked, sneaking a glance at Sherlock’s phone screen. They were on the Tube heading for Scotland Yard to see what Lestrade had to say about Coel, and Sherlock’d had his face to his phone for ten minutes, thumbing the screen as the train car rocked gently, racing along the tracks.

“Owen had a Facebook page. Everyone does now, and of his eight hundred ‘friends’,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, “he’s in contact with not only Vincent Coel, but her.” He held the phone out so John could see the image of a pretty blond woman by the name of Ana Olivier.

“The mysterious blond?” John asked.

“Possibly. She’s a barrister, a dom, enjoys fine foods, and she’s been out of town for two months on business.”

John stared at her profile picture. “Tell me you didn’t get all that from _that_ thumbnail.”

“Of course not.” Sherlock scoffed. “I simply read her wall. People put their entire lives online. I can see where she works, who she works with, what she likes to eat, her family. No word though since her departure.”

“Two months.” John mused. “I’m no expert, but Owen’s body looked more recently dead than two months. The water makes it difficult, but…”

Sherlock nodded. “Very good, John. I did an experiment once where I measured the decay rate of flesh in water. I had to use dead fetal pigs in the bathtub but the basic principle was the same. Owen’s body is definitely more recently deceased than two months.”

The woman sitting in the seat across the aisle looked up from her book and stared at them.

John swallowed. “You had dead fetal pigs in the same tub I take baths in?”

“Yes. So?”

John was too disgusted to speak.

“I _disinfected_ the tub, John. Before and after the experiment. I wasn’t too keen on bathing in pig water either.”

The other passenger gathered her items and moved to an empty seat at the opposite end of the car. She gave them a suspicious glance and picked up her book again.

“The point is,” Sherlock continued, “that Owen’s body is too recently dead, therefore, Ms. Olivier,” he waved his phone, “couldn’t have done it if she’s been in—” he glanced at the screen, “—New York for two months.”

“Brilliant.” John said.

Sherlock shrugged. “It doesn’t always take brilliant deductive reasoning. Google can be a trusty ally.”

They got off at a transfer and John paused by the ticket booths. He didn’t want to go see Lestrade, he was getting pissed off about this whole case and the idea of just demanding that Sherlock stay off of it was getting more appealing by the hour. He wanted to go home and put the case aside for the night and just _be_ with Sherlock and a cuppa and the nice warm flat.

“John…?” Sherlock glanced at him. “Problem?”

“I’m not feeling so well.” He said. “Do you mind going on your own?”

Sherlock frowned. “I suppose not…” He watched John carefully, looking for any hint of lies or illness. He seemed restless, fidgeting in place and looking longingly at the exit door. “Alright.” Sherlock said. “I’ll be back at the flat soon.”

“Be careful.” John said, then “love you.”

“Love you too.”

John kissed him on the cheek and walked towards the exit, hands stuffed in pockets. Sherlock watched him a moment, making a mental note that something might be wrong with his army doctor, before heading for the platform.

* * *

He got off the Tube and headed for Scotland Yard on foot twenty minutes later. Sherlock strode past the desks and glass partitions, heading confidently for Lestrade’s office. He was such a fixture at the Yard and so abrasive towards most of the employees there that no one gave him a second glance or acknowledged him in any way. Lestrade intercepted them on his way back from the printer with a stack of warm white inked pages in his hands.

“Did you speak to Coel?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes.” Lestrade shuffled the papers together into some semblance of order and turned into his office, shoving aside a half donut on a foam plate to make room for the new papers.

Sherlock’s phone bleeped. He ignored it.

“He was domming Owen Allsopp.” Lestrade said. “He’d been worried since he hadn’t heard from him in a few weeks. It sounds like Coel had a few subs he liked to see so when he thought Owen was playing hard to get, he just switched to a different flavor. The guy’s loaded with money and seems to be doing just fine.”

“Do you think he’s the killer?” Sherlock asked.

Lestrade made a face. “Not likely. He didn’t even seem all _that_ distraught about his death. Concerned in a polite way, but with his business and his multiple subs, he’s unlikely to be the murderer. He might be able to provide an alibi too, once we figure out an exact time of death. Molly’s on that now.”

“What about his home? Anything unusual there?”

“No.” Greg said, sorting out some of the papers. “Just a house. Nice for one bloke—don’t think he spends much time there since he works in the city so much.”

“I knew I should have gone. Did you see anything of _use?_ No, of course not. You lot never do.”

“Time is of the essence here, Sherlock.” Greg snapped out, slapping the rest of the papers into a different pile. “You talked to the barista while I spoke with Vincent. If, _if_ there’s a serial killer out there, we need to catch him as fast as possible.”

“Or her. Statistically your killer is likely to be a man, but we haven’t yet ruled out a female.” Sherlock’s phone bleeped again and he pulled it out of his pocket to read the text.

_There’s no point in ignoring me. I know where you live now. —Sebastian_

His heart boomed in his ears. _I know where you live._ Of course he would—Sherlock was a public detective with his own website. Clients came to the flat for heaven’s sake—what would stop Seb from doing the same?

“Sally’s not back yet.” Lestrade said. “Any luck at Mudd?”

“Hm? Oh. Not really.” Sherlock lied. Lestrade nodded and shuffled some more papers around his messy desk. A few manila folders fell to the floor.

“If you’re thinking of talking to Coel, don’t.” He said, rubbing his hands over his face with the air of someone who was very much done with life at the moment. “He’s still a suspect and I don’t want him scared off.”

* * *

Sherlock drummed his fingers along the armrest in the cab back to 221. What if Seb was there, lingering on the pavement? What if he had left something at the door? John would see it and then what? John. He had left claiming he wasn’t feeling well, but was that it? Did he suspect Seb’s texts? Would he get upset and shout? Would he throw things and call Sherlock names? Would he refuse to move in? Would he think him weak for not being able to get rid of Seb once and for all? He licked his lips, both worried and angry that Seb was still trying to insinuate himself into his life, like mold creeping into fractured cracks. He was with John. He _loved_ John—and John loved him. He blinked back a swell of tears. Seb couldn’t ruin this. John couldn’t find out. If John found out, he would get upset and think Sherlock was cheating, then he’d leave. He never wanted John to leave.

He paid the cabbie and got out in front of 221, pushing through the door into the foyer. No boxes or packages, nothing amiss. Good. He went up the steps and into the kitchen. Microscope, chemistry glass, dishes in the sink. Everything looked fine. Nothing out of place. Into the sitting room—furniture, laptops, John, papers stacked everywhere. Skull. Again nothing out of place.

“Anything from Lestrade?” John asked. He was watching telly. The news.

“He talked to Coel. Doesn’t think he’s the killer but what does he know?” Sherlock glanced around once more, was satisfied, then hung up his coat. “Are you feeling better?” He asked. John shrugged, then patted his knee, glancing up at Sherlock. The detective hesitated. He knew what John was asking. He wanted him to kneel and relax. Sherlock wanted to do that too, badly, but the case was pressing and he needed to organize and he had no idea how to balance working a case with being available for his dom. With stupid Sebastian it hadn’t been an issue since he never really wanted to actually spend time with Sherlock the way John did. He hated that his old dom was occupying his thoughts.

“Come be by me.” John said.

“I…my mind palace.” He gestured vaguely at his head. “I need to add new information first.”

“Oh.” John stared back at the telly. “How long will you be doing that?”

“I don’t know. Until it’s all in there and organized.”

The mood in the room abruptly changed. John opened and closed his fist a few times and his jaw tightened. He didn’t like the bloody mind palace. He understood that it was integral to Sherlock solving cases, but it also meant that he would be lost to the world until _he_ was ready to rejoin it. John already wanted him off this case, and that his sub was choosing to spend time with it rather than him rankled in the worst kind of selfish way. He was willing to accommodate the case, but did what he wanted count for nothing? John was about to speak up and say how much this case was bothering him, when—

_*Ding!*_

They both looked at Sherlock’s phone. He picked it up and his face paled in the light of the screen. He took a fast breath.

“What?” John said. “What does that say?”

“Hm? Nothing.” Sherlock slipped it into his pocket. John clenched his jaw. ‘Nothing’ his arse.

Sherlock was getting all these _texts_. He would always respond when his texts went off, lunging across the table for his phone and eagerly texting back. Sometimes, though, like now? He didn’t. He would either make a face at his phone or just look worried. It seemed like a little thing, but nothing was a little thing with Sherlock and if there was some sort of problem with his sub, John wanted to know. Was there something wrong? Some medical issue? Was he, could he be cheating?

John clenched his fist and felt something dominant bloom in his chest. Those texts plus this damned case were just raking him in the wrong way.

He wanted to keep Sherlock safe and he found he was genuinely irritated that his sub was pushing him aside for this case. Did he really not see how much he resembled and the victims? He was the exact type: Pale, young, dark hair, submissive, male. It was insane. Was Sherlock _looking_ to rile him up? He remembered the sofa incident and chaining up his ankles. Sherlock had provoked that punishment, was he trying to get more? Was he really _that_ bored? Who the hell was the dominant in this relationship? Him or Sherlock? He’d gone and looked for Dixon for hours through nasty trash and Sherlock couldn’t even give him twenty minutes on his knees? That wasn’t fair at all.

John stood up. If Sherlock really was that fucking bored, he could provide plenty of distraction. He deserved time with his sub. Without giving himself the benefit of pausing and actually thinking rationally about the thundering thoughts that had just pounded through his head, he barked out an order at his sub.

“Strip your clothes off!”

Sherlock looked up from his case notes, startled at the hollered command. “What?”

“You heard me. Get naked, _right now_.” John snapped his fingers and pointed at the floor. Sherlock stared at him, bristling and riled. The part of him that loved his partner was cautiously curious, and the part that was a submissive was _excited._

“My, my palace…” He said.

John stared at him. “I will not tell you again, Sherlock, get your clothes off right now.”

Sherlock stood up, a little bit giddy with anticipation but also a bit annoyed at the timing. John was being really dominant right now. He sounded almost angry. It was…different. He supposed the doctor must just be in the mood and Sherlock decided he could indulge him if he really needed to dom that badly. He slipped out of his clothes and had no sooner pushed his dressing gown to the side that John stomped over to him and pushed on his shoulder, guiding him forcefully to his knees. Sherlock hit the carpet harder than he would have preferred, and he grunted.

“Stay there. Don’t move. We’re doing something different tonight.” John strode for the bedroom. Sherlock wouldn’t listen to him and get off this stupid case? Sherlock wouldn’t tell him about all the bloody secret texts? Fine. John would just need to be more strict. Sherlock did run pretty wild and a harder hand might be just what the doctor ordered. He threw his shirt on the bed, leaving himself bare chested with the jeans still on, and opened up his box. He found a leather flogger. Each rope was knotted at the end and the effect on bare skin was stingy and painful. He also grabbed one of the bigger plugs and a gag. The clamps would be good too, and some chain and dark leather suspension cuffs. One night after work a few weeks ago, John had noticed a metal hook conveniently screwed into the ceiling in the center of the sitting room. It had likely been installed by a previous tenant, as John doubted Sherlock would have done so himself. Maybe it had been for an experiment? Regardless, it was there, and John was going to use it.

He carried all the toys out to the sitting room and dumped them on the table.

“What do you have planned for me, Captain?” Sherlock asked. John smiled down at his array of items.

“Oh, something that I should have done a while ago, I think.” John picked up the cuffs and turned to him and Sherlock held his hands out. John cinched them on his wrists and the sub examined the new cuffs. They covered more of his wrist, and each one had a little bar he could comfortably wrap his fingers around. Hm. He wondered what John had planned. “Stand.” John said. He got on a chair and threw the chain up on the hook, then got down and clipped the dangling ends to his sub’s wrists.

“You’re going to hang me from the ceiling?!” Sherlock sounded more surprised than anything.

“Not completely. Brace yourself.” John tugged the dangling end of chain and smiled as Sherlock’s arms went up, stretched up towards the ceiling. His ribs and belly and back were exposed and John saw him glance curiously up at the chain holding him. His feet were flat and John didn’t like that. He tugged some more until Sherlock was on the balls of his feet.

“Whoa.” He said, swaying a little. “This _is_ different.” Something seemed off. Sherlock watched John secure the chain so he wouldn’t slide out of place and he bit his lip. This was different to the usual sweet and sexily dominant Doctor who he’d been living with. This John was far more focused. His eyes were dark and his lips a deep red. His jeans were tented a bit at the crotch and his shoulders and back were tense. He picked up the plug and grabbed the lube. He looked at his sub admiringly. “Mm, look at you. Completely at my mercy.”

Sherlock held as still as he could while John ran his hand down his ribs and over his hip. “So gorgeous, and all mine.”

Sherlock didn’t really know what to say, so he just tried to slip into subspace the way he usually did. It didn’t seem so easy this time. He squeezed the bars in the cuffs. John went around him and Sherlock listened to him open the lube and squeeze it onto the plug. His cheeks were parted and then something hard was pressed into him, fast and unyielding.

“Ah, ah…” Sherlock hissed as his hole was breached and he tried to bear down to let John in.

“Hold still.” John grunted. His bum was slapped and John shoved the thing in. It was tight and a little sore, and the entry had left something to be desired. Sherlock exhaled. John went back to the table and picked up the gag. “You won’t be able to speak, so if you need to safeword, snap your fingers.”

“Yes, John.”

“Show me.” John looked up and Sherlock snapped his fingers loudly. “Good.” He kissed his sub on the lips and wrapped the gag around his head, fitting the ball in his mouth.

“Alright?” John asked. Sherlock nodded.

“Good.” He picked up the flogger and Sherlock eyed the new item. The leather cords were stiff and knotted on the ends and Sherlock wondered why John wasn’t using the crop. They both liked the crop, but something new was good too. John went behind him and Sherlock tensed up. This all was…not how they usually played. Sherlock had never been confined so succinctly, and he would have thought John would at least ask him before bringing in new items. To be honest, he wasn’t sure if he liked being suspended like this. The physical vulnerability of it was a little too exposing and he was finding that he didn’t like having his voice taken away.

The leather cords smacked across his shoulder and Sherlock yelped around the gag, jerking in the restraints. That flogger packed quite a punch. John must be feeling _really_ dominant.

“There we go.” John murmured. “You pink up so beautifully. Such nice pale skin.” _Thwack!_

Sherlock basked in the praise. He loved when John called him gorgeous and told him all the greatest things about him. _Thwack! Thwack!_

“Mmph.” Sherlock twisted away from the cords. He needed more time to recover between blows. Those little knots really caught in the skin.

John grabbed the plug and twisted it and Sherlock squeaked around the gag, yelling out a muffled “ow!”

“There we are.” John pulled it out, carefully. “Nice and loose for me now.” He unzipped and pushed his jeans down and Sherlock blinked when his dom grabbed his hips and eased his slick cock into his bum. John groaned in pleasure but Sherlock chewed on the rubber ball in his mouth. He own cock was flaccid and uninterested. He wasn’t getting anywhere near subspace and he found himself distracted. John’s cock inside of him felt intrusive and big and his arms were starting to get stiff. John hummed in pleasure and humped into him, then reached around and found his nipples. “Alright, love?” He asked.

Sherlock nodded and said, “yes” around the gag. It was too muffled to understand. John tried again.

"Lift your left foot off the ground if you're alright." He looked down and watched his sub lift his left foot and curl his toes.

"Excellent..." John moaned and grunted, fingering his sub’s chest and reaching down to grab for his cock. If he noticed it was soft, he didn’t care. John thrust into him faster and Sherlock winced. Standing, John had a good strong angle, and each thrust burned. He growled and slammed into him and Sherlock yelled out around the gag as heat gushed deep inside of him.

He put his fingers together, nearly ready to snap, but paused. It was still okay. A little part of him was morbidly curious to see how this would all turn out. “I think these,” _pinch, “_ need more attention, love.” He pulled out and grabbed the clamps. Sherlock held his breath as John secured the metal clamps on each nipple. He yelped around the gag as the rubber tips pinched the delicate flesh. His knees were quivering and he felt hot and sore all over. Muscles that weren’t used to being stretched were getting pulled and tugged. His arms, his jaw, his legs. Even the bottoms of his feet were scraping around on the carpet. He was sweating underneath the gag strap and it was kind of gross. Warmth was seeping out of his bum and slicking his thighs and subspace had never seemed further away.

“Sh, sh…” John kissed his jaw and cheekbone. “Too much?” He soothed, rubbing his hand up and down his body.

Sherlock shook his head.

“Good lad. We can do more.”

Was this supposed to be an endurance test? Sherlock tongued the gag again, wishing he could talk. He couldn’t relax, not with his arms up and tight like this and his back stinging the way it was. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong, though he wasn’t sure what.

 _Thwack! Thwack!_ The pain of the flogger on his back seemed to make the clamps on his nipples hurt all the more, and Sherlock grabbed the bars in the cuffs hard. This was so far removed from how they usually played. He regretted now not kneeling by John’s feet and sitting sweetly with some coffee while John stroked his hair and watched telly. That was a nice way to pass the time. Why hadn’t he agreed?

 _Doms,_ he thought darkly, _they just take what they want._

John was different though, hadn’t he come to terms with that an age ago? He bit down on the ball as John moved the flogger down to his arse. He swatted his bare cheeks and Sherlock clenched and grunted after each whack. The pain of it was getting pretty sharp and hot tears filled his eyes. He blinked them away and then suddenly, he couldn’t breathe. He blinked again and reflexively inhaled through his mouth. Nothing got past the gag and the tears spilled out of his eyes.

He let go of the bars in the cuffs and snapped both hands repeatedly and was then instantly glad that he did. For the briefest of moments, nothing happened. The flogger stopped and then he heard John’s, “oh shit.” A second later, the chain was lowered and his feet flattened on the ground. The chain slipped off the hook and jangled to the floor and Sherlock reached for the gag. He pulled it off his face, dropping it, and took a deep breath. He unclipped the nipple clamps and growled as the pain ratcheted up. His chest hurt. His back and bottom hurt. He was dripping John’s spunk and he sort of felt like crying.

“Hey, Sherlock? Love?” John appeared in his line of vision and he looked _scared._ He blinked a few times and reached up to cradle Sherlock’s head. He pulled away.

“Sherlock? C’mon, talk to me.”

“Couldn’t breathe.” He rasped. He held still as John unlatched the cuffs and pulled them off. Nothing touched him anymore and he scrubbed his hands through his hair.

“Talk to me, what—”

“—I need space.” Sherlock stepped away from him and walked down the hall. Everything seemed to hurt. His arm muscles were twitching and the flogger licks were stinging bright on his back and arse. He closed himself in the loo and took a deep breath. He found his red dressing gown hanging on the door and slipped it on, hugging the silk to his body. It felt good to be clothed again and he sat on the closed toilet, just breathing and thinking. That had been awful. He had no idea what John had been thinking. Maybe it was a new plan gone wrong. Maybe it was some sort of punishment for refusing to kneel. Maybe John thought it would be really sexy. He didn’t know and he closed his eyes.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, five minutes or thirty-five, when a soft knock sounded on the door.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice was ragged with anxiety and viciously, Sherlock thought, _good._

“Can you open up? I just, you can be alone, I just want to see that you’re okay.”

Sherlock took another breath—how could he ever have thought breathing was boring?—and looked at the door.

“Yeah.” His voice was low and rough. The door clicked open. His dom was in pajama bottoms and a big Tshirt. His feet were bare. He crept in and knelt on the floor in front of his sub.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I, went too far.”

A nod.

“Jesus.” John rubbed his hands hard through his hair. “I’m so sorry, can we, you need to drink something. And eat too. Can I look at your—”

“John.” He looked into his dom’s eyes. “I really need you to not tell me what to do anymore today.”

John gulped. “Yeah, of course.”

“Can you go now, please?” Sherlock wanted to move around, but he didn’t want to see or deal with John right now.

“I, yes.” John stood up. “I, okay…” he walked out of the room and closed the door behind. Sherlock instantly missed him. John was comfort. John made him not feel bad.

Everything was hurting, but he thought his heart hurt most of all.

* * *

John closed the loo door and headed back towards the kitchen, rubbing his hands over his face. What the hell had he been thinking? He had been upset, and he let his temper make the decisions tonight. It was just like when he was younger and he’d put that girl in hospital…

He slammed his fist down on the counter top. He was _not_ that person anymore. This was nothing like that. He’d been upset and he’d gone too far but Sherlock didn’t need emergency care. He swore at himself. He loved Sherlock. He loved this mad submissive genius and he might have messed everything up with tonight. He hadn’t moved in yet, though the date was nigh. If Sherlock didn’t want him anymore after tonight, he would have to live with that. It would hurt like hell and it would be all his fault.

As soon as Sherlock snapped his fingers and tore everything off, John could see how much he wasn’t enjoying any of it. He wasn’t in subspace. He was hurt and frightened and the bitch of it all was that John had no one but himself to blame.

This wasn’t Sherlock’s fault. It was up to him to read the signs. To be able to read his submissive and see when it was too much. He’d fucked that up tonight, badly. He wanted to both put his fist through a plate of glass and sink to the floor crying, so he settled on making tea. He sipped the scalding beverage and took a deep breath, enjoying the way it warmed his gums.

Think. Focus. Stop being an idiot. What was the next step? Sherlock wanted space, so John would simply give him space and go from there. He walked into the sitting room and took another sip, then set the mug on the desk. He gathered up all the items and put the lubricant away, then carried it all to the bedroom and opened his box. The shower was running and he packed everything up, wondering if Sherlock would ever even be interested in the box again.

* * *

Sherlock stood up off the toilet and slipped the gown off, then looked at himself in the mirror. His back was dashed with little circular marks from the flogger and his nipples were bright red. There were pink marks near his mouth from the gag and his wrists smelled of leather. The cuffs were comfortable, if nothing else. He looked like he hadn’t slept in about forty years. A shower. That’s what he needed. He got in the tub and turned on the water, then pulled the curtain and let the warmth gush over him, rinsing away all the evening’s tension. The dried semen loosened on his thighs and the water was cool enough to not aggravate his sore back and chest. He stretched his arms and felt the tension pull in his muscles. He tentatively reached between his bum cheeks. His hole was tender. John hadn’t harmed him though. He didn’t think John could ever really harm him. He would be fine.

He washed his hair and simply enjoyed the heat and steam of the water sluicing over his skin. He felt much better by the time he turned the water off and dried. He slipped the gown on again and closed it tight, then walked into the bedroom. The bed was turned down and looked sumptuous and soft. He wandered into the kitchen and found a mug of fresh tea waiting for him. John was in the sitting room, just sort of standing there. It was obvious he had been pacing. Waiting. There was no sign of the cuffs or flogger or that anything had happened at all, just a really sheepish John. Sherlock sipped the tea. It was delicious and touched with sweetness and he drank deep from the mug, enjoying it.

He was surprised when John came over to him, knelt before him on the hard tile, and hugged him ferociously around the legs. Sherlock rested his free hand in his dom’s hair and looked down at him.

“I’m so sorry, Sherlock, I don’t even know the words I need to express how much I feel like a giant bastard right now.”

Sherlock smiled softly. “Stand up.”

John did, wringing his hands and looking away.

“Hey,” he caught John’s eye. “I’m okay. Sore and pissed off at you, but okay.”

John gulped and nodded, looking down again.

“Come to bed?” Sherlock asked, holding out his hand. He set the mug aside. John eagerly took his hand and followed him to the bedroom.

“You’re okay with me sleeping here? I could take the sofa, or…I still have my bedsit for a few more days…”

They looked at each other and John looked for all the world like he expected Sherlock to rescind his move in offer.

“Stay here.” Sherlock patted the spot in the bed beside him and John got in eagerly.

Sherlock took his gown off and pulled on boxers and a loose Tshirt, then turned off the light and got into bed and curled up on his side. He would go to his palace tomorrow and deal with the case. John would likely want to talk tomorrow too, about all of this. The doctor was laying flat on his back, stiff as a board behind him, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. No doubt John was mentally beating the hell out of himself back there.

He rolled over and pulled at the man, encouraging him to come closer. John seemed surprised, but he tentatively scooted closer and Sherlock cuddled his dom, tucking his face down into the crook of John’s neck and fitting their legs together. This was much better.

Slowly he felt John relax. A soft hand came up to pet his damp hair and then warm lips were pressed to his scalp. John tightened his hold on him and they both fell asleep.

 


	20. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Discussions are had and John comes to terms with an important part of their relationship.

Sherlock opened his eyes slowly, blinking in the bright sunlight. Instantly the previous night came back to him and the way he’d been so distraught and on edge washed over him like a sickness. He pushed his face into the pillow. He didn’t want to deal the aftermath. He wondered briefly how John was holding up after everything. He peeked up and found the bed empty save for himself. His phone was on the side table. He didn’t remember leaving it there—he’d left it in his pocket in his trousers right before John told him to strip. John must have brought it in. He reached for it, wincing only a little bit as his back scraped the sheets. His clothes that he’d left kicked off to the side by the fireplace were folded neatly on the armchair. John or Mrs. Hudson? Hmm. He pulled up his text conversation with his dom.

_Where are you? —SH_

He sent it and a moment later heard a chime from the kitchen. Ah. There were footsteps in the hall and then John appeared with a cup of coffee. He set it on the side table.

“Hey.” He sat on the edge of the bed, looking down at his sub with concern and worry and a sheepish kind of joy, like he couldn’t believe Sherlock was still speaking to him. He looked rough around the edges. He hadn’t shaved and his hair was spiky and messy. His eyes looked dull with exhaustion.

“You didn’t sleep last night.” Sherlock touched his dom’s thigh.

“Not much.”

“John.” Sherlock was again surprised with his own sentiment. He wanted John to feel better. He wanted his dom to not beat himself up about this. Sherlock knew that, if he felt so inclined, he could tell the doctor to do damn near anything and John would do it just to make amends. Just because he felt so shit about last night. He could subject the doctor to all manner of unpleasant experiments in the name of apology and revenge and he was certain that John would obey his every wish. He didn’t want that though. If he asked John to eat or smell something foul, he wanted it to be because the doctor agreed, no strings attached. Not because he agreed out of guilt. He patted John’s knee. He just didn’t want his dom to feel so crappy anymore.

_I guess that’s love._

He sat up, hiding his wince as best he could, and reached for the coffee. They needed to talk about this. Or something. He knew John wanted to see the damage, and to be honest, he wouldn’t mind some hands-on time with his doctor. He still felt a little timid and he wanted to submit. He wanted John inside of him but his backside sore the way it was, he doubted it would be a good idea.

He sipped and put the cup back down. “I need the loo.” He touched John’s hip and the doctor stood. Sherlock got to his feet and stretched. His muscles creaked and he groaned at the pleasure-pain of it. He used the toilet and washed his hands and cleaned his teeth. He took off his sleep clothes and wrapped his dressing gown on, then came back into the room. John was still in pajamas, sitting on the bed and looking miserable.

Sherlock sat beside him. “Last night?”

A nod. “I understand if you want me to leave.”

“Don’t be so melodramatic. Of course I don’t. Now we know what not to do in a scene.”

“I should have known.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m your dom.”

“But _I_ let you know. That is the point of the safe word, correct? When it gets to be too much, I let you know and we stop. That’s exactly what happened yesterday, John.”

The doctor pursed his lips and Sherlock nuzzled into his neck. “Look me over. See for yourself that I’m fine.” _And so that I can see that you’re fine._

“Yeah. I want to take a shower first.”

Sherlock looked up at him. He hadn’t been expecting that response at all. Usually John couldn’t wait to get his hands on him after a scene.

“Okay.”

John nodded and went into the loo and Sherlock frowned at the door. Something, again, was off. He went out to the desk and opened his laptop. He Googled ‘top drop.’ He’d read the term in the PTSD books and wasn’t entirely familiar with it. He knew all about sub drop from Seb’s gentle ministrations. It had taken an age for him to realize that it wasn’t his brain reacting badly to subbing, it was Seb’s stupid lack of interest in aftercare. Once Sherlock had found a brand of dynamic pill to augment his own biology, he’d managed a much more even keel.

He found a decent looking article and read about how doms could experience a sort of mild depression after intense scenes. The article went on to say that some doms, though in a sort of ‘dom space’ while in the scene that was similar to sub space, could crash afterwards the same way a sub could. Sherlock frowned, thinking over what had happened. He’d stepped away from John and locked himself in the loo and then showered on his own. He hadn’t given any thought at all to his dom, other than thinking about how annoyed he was and how wrong that flogging had gone.

John had been out there alone and worried and by himself, not knowing if his sub had been harmed or was bleeding. Damn. John was probably dropping, but how could he help? If a switch dropped, would they flip dynamics? He’d dom John again if he asked, of course he would, to but he didn’t want to do the wrong thing. Again, these were foreign waters. His own sub drop he learned to take care of on his own, but…he’d never experienced any kind of drop with John. He’d never really appreciated that until now. His dom loved aftercare and now he needed some for himself.

What could he do for John? He did another search for different ways to please dominants and rolled his eyes at half the results. He didn’t think John would care about fluffy handcuffs and rose petals on the bed.

He could buy the milk. That would make him happy. He stood up and went to the fridge, opening it. Hm, the container was full. That reminded him, there was an experiment he wanted to do later.

Perhaps he could just make himself readily available sexually. John liked sex. A lot. He was already available though. He enjoyed having sex with John and he already let the doctor do all kinds of things to him.

He could ask John what he wanted. That was an option too.

The shower stopped running and Sherlock went back to the bedroom. John came out of the room in a striped dressing gown, toweling his hair. “Much better.” He said, glancing his his sub. Sherlock crept up to him and nuzzled the back of his neck.

“You seem…distracted.” Sherlock said.

“I’m fine.”

“Are you experiencing dom drop?”

“No.” He scoffed. Sherlock didn’t believe him. The sub slipped his gown off and draped it over the foot of the bed and pulled John into a kiss. “I think you might be a little bit.”

John sighed. “Maybe.” He mumbled.

“What do you need? Do you need to sub?”

“No…” John looked up at him and cradled the side of his face. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ve already apologized.” Sherlock kissed him on the lips. “I forgive you.”

“Mmm, let me look you over. That’ll help.”

Sherlock stepped back and John found some hand cream and ointment. He tossed the items on the bed and glanced over his sub’s bare body in a clinical way, examining his nipples first. They were red and looked irritated, but the skin wasn’t broken or chafed. John looked at his back. Red marks from the flogger knots were spattered over the middle of his back and his shoulders. A few marks were dark and bruised. John touched them and Sherlock didn’t flinch. Lower down, his bottom was splotchy with pink and dotted with bruises. John ran two fingers over the warm skin and then leaned up and kissed him on the face. “What about inside?” He asked.

“Tender but okay.”

“Can I…?”

“Yes, you don’t need to ask.”

“Get on the bed, then. Knees and elbows.”

Sherlock did, and John parted his cheeks. He was red and it looked mildly swollen. _Fuck._ He grabbed the ointment and applied it generously, gently wriggling a finger in to check for internal damage. He didn’t feel anything, and he didn’t think there would be. Good. He pulled out and without thinking, he rubbed his thumb across his sub’s balls and his palm up and down his cock. Sherlock gasped and John froze.

“Sorry.” He pulled his hand back to himself. “I should’ve asked.”

“That’s not why I made that noise, and remember what I said? You never need to ask.” Sherlock said.

John licked his lips. “You’re swollen and red, but there’s no blood. Did you have any bleeding yesterday, love?”

“No.” Sherlock scoffed. “Relax, will you?” He sounded irritated but he couldn’t help it. John was being such a damn martyr. “You didn’t sodomize me with a broken bottle, you were simply over excited.”

John smirked. “Over excited is being kind.”

“I wasn’t hurt. This isn’t like that experience you had before.” Sherlock looked up at him. “I don’t need the hospital.”

John nodded. “I know. You’re okay.”

“Yes, yes I am.” He wriggled his arse. “If you want to we could…”

“No.” John smiled. “Not for at least twenty fours, love. I’m not risking aggravating the inflammation. I’ll check you again and maybe we’ll have sex later.”

Sherlock pouted but conceded. He crawled up and sat on the bed.

“I should have knelt when you offered.” He said.

“Hey now,” John sat beside him. “This isn’t your fault.”

“Did I say it was? I don’t think it’s my fault. I think I was ignoring you and you were feeling possessive. I think we’re both to blame.”

John was quiet, then, “let me put cream on your back.”

Sherlock laid down on the bed and John straddled his thighs and smeared the cream over his sore spots, the way he did after every time they played. It felt good and Sherlock sighed in delight as John’s warm familiar hands touched him and soothed the aches away. John capped the tube and Sherlock looked up at him playfully and reached for his dressing gown. “Sofa?”

John smiled. “Always.”

They went out to the sitting room and John threw himself onto the cushions. Sherlock straddled his lap and they kissed sweetly, cupping necks and touching chests and hips. This was much better. John was all quiet and zoned out and Sherlock wanted to encourage the old dominant John out. Already he seemed more himself than he had before his shower. It seemed all the physical contact was helping. Sherlock growled and reached down and fondled his dom’s crotch. He slipped his tongue into his mouth and felt John grin.

“Oh, that’s impertinent.” He pulled back. “Who’s in charge here?” He asked. Sherlock looked away, his lips twisted in a little smirk.

“You, John.”

“Yes, me.” He ran his hands up Sherlock’s sides, making him shiver. They rested their foreheads together.

“I’m starved.” John said.

“Mmm.”

“Let’s go down to Speedy’s. I can’t be arsed to cook.”

John dressed him. They hadn’t done that before, but John had just sort of started pulling clothes for both of them out of the wardrobe and when he came at Sherlock with a pair of pants and a shirt the sub allowed him to slide the pants up his legs, followed by a pair of jeans.

“Denim?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes?” John helped him step into the jeans and he pulled them up, buttoning and zipping and getting a grope on the bum and crotch in for good measure. Sherlock smiled and reached for the undershirt John had pulled out for himself. He slipped it on.

“That’s mine.” John said.

“Yes.”

John had selected one of the looser fitting button up shirts, a pale blue one, and he put it on him and buttoned it up.

“There.” John said, eying him. “Is anything chafing? Are you sore?”

“M’fine.”

John nodded and got dressed himself in dark jeans and a checkered shirt and a brown cardigan and the detective followed him down the two flights of steps and out the front door. It was crowded in the little cafe and Sherlock stood very close behind his dom as they waited in line and read the big menu posted on the wall.

Mrs. Hudson was behind the counter, packing something into a bag, and she waved at them cheerily.

“What would you like?” John asked him, waving back. Sherlock slipped their hands together. He would just touch and follow him until John got so tired of him that he tied him up in the corner. That would be excellent.

“Whatever you’re having.” He murmured in his ear.

“That’s risky.” John noted.

“No it isn’t. You’re going to get sausages and beans, a piece of toast with jam and two eggs over easy. Tomatoes on the side.”

John grinned. He was exactly right, but he was hardly going to give him the satisfaction.

“Almost right.”

“ _Almost?_ ”

“I’m having toast with butter, not jam.”

“Liar.” Sherlock nuzzled into the side of John’s neck and kissed the sensitive spot under his ear as they moved up to the counter. Mrs. Hudson was at the register and she smiled. “You two.” She typed up their orders into the machine and winked at John. Sherlock was nosing around the doctor’s neck, tickling the skin there as John tried to pull his wallet out.

“Sherlock,” he complained mildly. “I need to pay.”

Sherlock hummed and John felt the reverberations through his back. Sherlock’s own wallet appeared in his vision and John’s neck flushed pink when warm breath tickled his jaw. He opened the wallet and firmly handed Mrs. Hudson the money and tried to push his sub away. Sherlock hugged him and John rolled his eyes.

Mrs. Hudson was loving every second.

“Take away?” John asked him pointedly. “Since you can’t sit down?”

Sherlock pulled back, looking put out and John smiled sweetly up at him.

Mrs. Hudson tittered in delight.

“Take away.” Sherlock told her. They grabbed their bags of food a few minutes later and took it upstairs.

“Did you have to mention that in front of her?” Sherlock groused as the went into B.

“You were the one breathing all over my neck and getting me all riled.”

“Well of course.” Sherlock set his bag down on the table and gave John a small smile. “That was _fun._ ”

“And I have an idea for something fun too.” John made them both coffee and picked up his _and_ Sherlock’s breakfast containers. “Get forks, love.” He brought the food into the sitting room and Sherlock followed with utensils, perplexed. “Get the flag pillow and kneel beside me.”

“Are you feeding me?”

John looked up in surprise at the barely disguised eagerness in his voice. “Yes, I am.”

Sherlock grabbed the pillow. John sat on the far side of the sofa and angled the table out so he could access both his and Sherlock’s dishes easily.

John popped the tops on the plastic dishes and inhaled the delicious scents of sausage and egg. Sherlock sank to the pillow and John took a bite of his own food first. Delicious. The eggs were soft and the sausage salty. The tomatoes were perfect and burst wonderfully on his tongue. He sipped his coffee and looked down at his sub, waiting patiently.

“Here.” John sliced a few bits of sausage and held the full fork out. Sherlock delicately pulled the food off and chewed it and John rubbed his fingers through his hair. Sherlock hummed in pleasure. John gave him some beans, then the toast. He shoveled some more into his own mouth and then made another bite for his sub. “Have some coffee, love.” John held the cup steady towards him and Sherlock sipped.

They got through the meal at a leisurely pace, enjoying each other’s company and making small talk to chase the storm clouds away. John seemed to relax throughout the meal, smiling more and looking down at him tenderly, like he needed to see with his own eyes that Sherlock was fine and still trusted him enough to sub for him. Good. John’s phone bleeped in his pocket and he pulled it out.

_Hey John! Would you two want to come over for dinner tomorrow? 7 ish? Betsy’s cooking ;) —Mike_

“Who is it?” Sherlock asked.

“Mike.” John showed him the phone.

“Dinner?” Sherlock made a face.

“Since when do you not like Betsy’s cooking?” John asked. He typed back,

_Thanks Mike! We’ll both be there. —JW_

“The _food_ is decent, it’s just…all the sitting and….chatting.”

John put the phone away. “You’ll live. Here, finish your tomatoes.”

* * *

John was strolling up Baker Street to do some food shopping that afternoon, whistling. He had a very satisfied submissive at home currently in his mind palace and they were both feeling much better than they had been yesterday evening. Sherlock hadn’t been nearly as pissed off at him and he’d feared, and rubbing the cream on him had helped immensely, as had breakfast. He hoped they were back on the road to a good place.

A long black limo pulled up beside him with a screech and the back door flung open. John froze as two suited men jumped out. He watched them, wondering what was going on, when they came towards him.

He backed up, then turned to run—

—He was grabbed, hard, and spun back around. He punched one guy. The other one grabbed his arms.

“You fuckers, get the fuck off me—who the hell are you?! _Sherlock!_ ” He yelled automatically to his sub for help even though Sherlock obviously wouldn’t hear him. His question went, unsurprisingly, unanswered by the suited men and he was manhandled into the back of the black car. The door was slammed and the vehicle instantly sped off. John tore at the door, ripping at the handle so hard it almost came off in his hand. He scrabbled for the lock and found nothing.

“A helpful tip, these doors cannot be unlocked from the inside. Not from back here.” The voice was smooth and familiar and completely unconcerned at his frantic tugging at the door and John sighed, thumping his fist on the window in defeat.

“Mycroft. What the hell.” John pushed himself onto the seat across from the elder Holmes brother.

“I should ask you the same.” He said in a dark tone. John looked up at him. In the failing daylight, he looked positively sinister sitting in the corner of the car in a dark suit and leather gloves. Half his face was in black shadow and he was staring at John with a glare on his face.

“Why?” John asked carefully.

“My brother has had the misfortune of dealing with one abusive dominant already. Believe me, you do _not_ want to be the second.”

“I didn’t…” John sat up straighter, worried now. He rubbed his hand over his face. “It wasn’t bad.” There was no point in denying it. Mycroft clearly knew something had gone wrong.

“He’s injured.” Mycroft hissed.

“He’s fine! He said so himself.”

“He’s walking as if he’s sore. He winces. He’s tense, like he’s been wounded.”

John stared at him. “Do you have _cameras_ in our bloody flat?”

“No.” Mycroft said succinctly. “That’s the truth.”

John stared at him. Whether or not it _was_ the truth, he didn’t know. One of his minions must have seen Sherlock exit the flat and make the trek to Speedy’s.

“Sherlock can protect himself.” John growled.

“Even from you?”

John grit his teeth, pissed off at himself all over again now. “He _doesn’t need_ protecting from me! I didn’t abuse him!”

“Listen to me very carefully, John. The only reason Sebastian was allowed to carry on hurting my brother was because I didn’t know what was going on.” His lips tightened a little and he closed his eyes briefly and John guessed he was probably still beating himself up about it. “I will not make that mistake again. If I get even a _whiff_ that you are in any way abusing or mistreating him, the last thing you ever see—if you’re very, _very_ lucky—will be the inside of a jail cell.”

“Okay! Christ.” John raised his hands, wanting him to stop talking. “You won’t. Save the creepy-arse speech, you already gave it to me in that car park.”

“Maybe we need to revisit it.”

“We don’t.” He said in a firm voice. _God, he’s off-putting._

“What happened?” Mycroft asked.

John made a face. “M’not telling you.”

Mycroft stared at him, the light from the sunset making the one side of his face glow a faint red.

“That’s between me and him.” John stayed firm. “You can look ghoulish in the corner over there all you want, but there’s no need for you to know details.” John looked out the window. He had no idea where they were.

“I know you two tend towards the more…adventurous side of your dynamics. You especially.”

“What the hell does that mean?” John growled.

“BDSM provides a certain amount of leeway for someone who would want to abuse. A certain amount of coverage, if you will.”

“I sure as fuck _won’t_ , and _everything_ I’ve ever done with him has been with his consent. You want to come by the flat right now and ask him to prove it? I’d _love_ to see his response to that question.” John’s fist clenched, both as a stress response and because he really wanted to punch Mycroft in the face. The older Holmes seemed to sense this, as he stopped pursuing it and wisely chose to shut up instead.

John’s phone chimed. He pulled it out of his pocket. Sherlock.

_Are you coming back yet? We need milk. —SH_

_No. I haven’t even gone. Your brother abducted me. I’m in his car. I just bought milk! —JW_

A few seconds later, Mycroft’s phone beeped. He pulled it out of his jacket and John watched him frown at the screen, then roll his eyes.

“You two will be the death of me.” He muttered, typing a note.

John’s phone chimed again.

_I called him an arrogant tosser who sticks his massive nose in where it doesn’t belong. What else should I call him? I used all the milk… —SH_

_My hero. Tell him he’s a wanker with my regards. Why used it all? —JW_

_An experiment. —SH_

Mycroft’s phone went off again and he read the screen. “Charming, John. Very charming.”

The doctor hid a grin, childishly pleased. The car pulled up to the Tesco closest to 221 and the doors unlocked.

“Remember this.” Mycroft said in a low tone. “We will not have this conversation again.”

They stared each other in the eye. John nodded and exited the car. He slammed the door and it slipped into the traffic. He shivered in the store’s neon glow and went inside.

* * *

John pushed into the flat with the shopping bags and headed upstairs. Sherlock was pacing around the room, case notes laid out everywhere and the wall collage significantly larger.

“Hey.” He called.

“Mm.” Sherlock was staring at the wall, fingers twitching under his chin.

John wandered into the room and looked everything over. Gory photos of the dead subs, what was left of them, anyway, caught his eye and he frowned. It was just too easy for that pale, ragged skin to be Sherlock. He clenched his fist and looked at the jotted words: knives, dismembered, decayed. Instantly he was in a bad mood. He turned away from the wall and went back to the kitchen, slamming cabinet doors and banging dishes together.

“Problem?” Sherlock looked at him in concern.

“I don’t like this case.” John said, flexing his hand again. His voice was low and growly and he walked over to his sub. “Whoever is out there is killing people who look a lot like _you._ ” He pointed at Sherlock’s face. “I don’t like it, I want you off of it.”

Sherlock gave him an incredulous look. “You think _I’m_ next?”

“Yes, I do! If not next, then soon. Look at that, Sherlock!” He pointed at the photos of the bodies. “They look just like you. Young, white, male, submissive!”

“That won’t happen.” Sherlock scoffed.

“You can’t promise that.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, then closed it. “No. I can’t. But John, you’re being unreas—”

“—don’t say I’m being unreasonable! I’m not. I’m being perfectly logical. If anything, you’re a target. You’re working _with_ the police to investigate all this! Whoever is doing this is going to want you off the case.”

“Lestrade won’t let anything happen to me.” Sherlock said it with complete confidence and conviction. “He hasn’t yet.”

“I don’t care.” John put his hands up. “You’re off the case, end of discussion.” He went into the kitchen.

“Or _what!?”_ Sherlock snarled. “You don’t get to decide what cases I take. _I_ choose what cases I solve. _Me!”_

“So I’m just supposed to sit back and let you get murdered!?”

“It won’t happen!” Sherlock howled. “Ulgh.” He sank to the sofa and gripped the sides of his head. “This is so asinine—this is just what Sebastian used to do. He’d try to refuse me cases too—I’m done with that, John. I’m done with doms trying to control my life.”

“Oh, so now I’m controlling your whole life?”

“It sure sounds like you’re trying to!”

They stared at each other in fumes of rage. Finally John grabbed his jacket.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock asked.

“Out. You can work on your bloody case uninterrupted.” John threw his jacket on and thundered down the steps. What a load of bullocks! Sherlock wanted to go traipsing about after deranged murderers and _he_ was the unreasonable one? Ridiculous.

“John?” A hesitant voice made him stop his angry stomps. Mrs. Hudson was at the bottom of the steps in a pink dress and slippers. Her flat smelled like sweet cake and he could hear voice inside. She had friends over. The doctor instantly felt bad for disturbing them all, not to mention horribly embarrassed that strangers had overheard their fight.

“I’m sorry, did we bother you?” He asked, adjusting his coat on his shoulders.

“No, love. I heard shouting and…is everything alright?”

John let out a breath, unsure of what to say. Her soft fingers touched his cheek. She smelled of hand cream and vanilla he looked into her eyes. “He’s tough to live with and can be a stubborn pig headed mule.” She said.

He nodded.

“But John, he _loves you_. Remember that. Every couple rows, but there’s nothing wrong with cooling off and then talking about it later over a cuppa when you’re both more rational, hm?”

John took a long, deep breath. “Yeah.” The hardest edge of his anger was carved off under her soft words and the quiet, natural submissiveness about her was bringing his temper down like an anchor tossed overboard. “He’s just maddening sometimes, you know?”

“Oh I do.” She said. “I’ve known him long enough to learn that if you try to cage him, he just fights that much harder to break free. And he always breaks free in the end.”

John nodded. “I understand.”

“Good lad.” She patted his shoulder.

“Sorry for shouting.” John said quietly.

“That’s alright, dear. No bother.” She went back into her flat and John went outside. His anger had fizzled into a rough simmer of annoyance and he paced up the street.

* * *

Stupid John! _This_ was the exact reason he didn’t want to ever have a dom again! No one understood how important cases were to him. No one understood that if he didn’t have that stimulation in his life he’d go utterly mad and end up in a jail cell himself. Seb was an ape—of that he was certain—but John was supposed to be better! He loved John for fuck’s sake. He’d never loved anyone…not like this…

Sherlock grabbed his hair and pulled, growling when a few strands _pinged_ out of his skin. He grabbed for his violin, snatching the bow up and angrily sawing at the strings, making the thing shriek out in frustration. It wasn’t really helping. Within moments someone next door was pounding on the fireplace wall and he lowered the instrument.

“Oh shut up!” He barked at the wall. The person yelled something unintelligible back and he stood there in a sulk, the violin and bow hanging limp from his hands. What if John never came back? What if that was it? Sherlock shook his head to scatter the awful thoughts. He set the violin down and took up his phone. He pulled up the text thread he had with John and had fingers poised to add to it, but he paused. What would he say? I miss you? Come home? Everything sounded needy as hell and he closed the thread. Seb’s most recent message popped up and he stared down at it listlessly, scrolling through the rest of them. John _was_ better than him. He couldn’t lose John, not after yesterday. This morning had been so nice! John made him feel better and he fed him and now they were fighting again. What a mess.

He threw the phone down in disgust and stormed to the bedroom. Mycroft was right—subs were the weaker dynamic. He was so needy and clingy—if John wanted to leave him, he would just have to deal with it. He looked at the bed and the rumpled sheets and remembered John’s recent nightmares.

_He’s seen a great deal of death, and he doesn’t want me to die too._

Sherlock raked his hand through his hair. It was so much easier when he was alone, in a way, but it was so much better with John at his side now. His thoughts drifted to Lotto, his dealer, and he rolled his eyes. It was easy when he was stressed out about a case to just pop over and buy what his body craved, but he wouldn’t. Not now. Not anymore. He went back out to the sitting room and looked at the wall again and all the pinned up photos, hoping for a ray of light.

* * *

John was striding down the sidewalk in the clammy nighttime air. A hot cup of coffee and a cold breeze had cleared his head and he felt a little better. He’d thought about calling Mike or Betsy to vent and ask advice, but realized he didn’t need to. Demanding Sherlock off the case wasn’t his right. Sherlock was an adult and if he wanted to go after the killer, then John could only voice his opinion. He didn’t _like_ the case by any means and he thought it was foolish and hare brained, but that didn’t give him the right to impose these boundaries. When they had discussed rules, he knew that cases and The Work was going to be a priority for Sherlock. The detective had told him that and John had agreed. John wondered if he made that ultimatum—if he told his sub that he wasn’t going to stand for violent cases, then he would likely possibly lose him.

He sighed and sipped the last of his coffee, walking back up to B. He didn’t want to entertain the possibility that Sherlock would tell him to leave. To never come back. Sherlock was….well, Sherlock was it, as far as he was concerned. He imagined growing old together and it made him smile. It made him _happy_ in a way that nothing else did.

Sherlock, with all his dangerous, genius glory, or an extremely painful break up and back to solitude? The answer was obvious. He tossed his empty cup into the bin outside Speedy’s and went back upstairs, ready to apologize and talk it out for the second time in twenty four hours.

 


	21. Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Progress is made in the case. The boys discover a common kink. Sherlock makes a bad decision.

 Sherlock stared at his wall of photos, glancing everything over. No bursts of inspiration. He needed more information. In the meantime, he still wanted to talk to Vincent Coel, Owen’s last known dominant. Lestrade had told him not to but Sherlock didn’t plan on telling Lestrade he was going to talk to Coel, so it wouldn’t be a problem.

The door opened downstairs and one of Sherlock’s ears twitched, listening. Footsteps sounded on the landing and he focused back on his wall. It was John, coming up slowly. If he had been stomping back up, Sherlock would know he was still pissed off. These footsteps were quiet and hesitant. He likely was regretting the shouting and possibly thinking of what to say. The door to the sitting room opened and a sheepish John came through. He glanced up at Sherlock.

“Hey.” He said.

“Mm, hello.” Sherlock continued to look at his wall and John went into the kitchen, stood there for a moment, then poured water into the kettle. He was making tea. Good. Sherlock wanted tea but was too lazy to go over there and make some himself.

John tiptoed into the sitting room with two mugs full of apology. He held one out to his sub and Sherlock took it and sipped.

“I,” John began, shifting in place, “I’m…I shouldn’t have shouted at you.” He looked down at his tea. “I shouldn’t have told you to get off the case.”

It was tempting to cut him off, but Sherlock was curious. Doms didn’t apologize to him very often and the feeling was somewhat novel.

“It’s not my right to demand that.” He bit his lip, sipped the tea too fast, and continued. “I don’t _like_ the case and I can’t wait until it’s over and that lunatic is behind bars.” He paused. “I just keep fucking things up.”

“No you don’t.” Sherlock said.

“This fight, and that scene went terribly.” John pointed out.

“The scene was a mistake, and this was only our first real fight. I’m amazed we’ve gotten on as well as we have.” Sherlock looked down. “People don’t usually get along with me.”

“Well people are idiots.” John muttered.

“I can drink to that.”

They both did.

“Seriously, though, Sherlock—”

“—it’s fine.”

“I, really?”

“Yes.” He smirked at him. “C’mon, did you think I would kick you out? Break up with you? If you remember, you’re moving in tomorrow.”

“No. I don’t know. I just don’t want to be like Seb was.”

“You’re not.” Sherlock put his cup down and hugged his dom, inhaling his scent and burying his face in his shoulder. “Oh God, you’re not.”

* * *

Sherlock woke up the next drizzly grey morning, content and relaxed in all the right places. John was asleep beside him. He’d slept soundly through the night, no nightmares or murmuring. He had been exhausted, after all. They’d ‘made up’ for a few hours last night (Sherlock’s backside had been completely up to it). Sherlock smiled softly at his back and then reached for his phone. A text from Molly.

_Owen Allsopp’s test results came back if you want to come by. They’re rather disturbing. Officer Lestrade is on the way. —Mol_

Perfect. He jumped out of bed, washed up, and was out of the flat fifteen minutes later on silent feet. He left John to sleep. No point in dragging him out on a case he didn’t like. He was moving in today, and it wouldn’t take long to talk to Molly. He could be back in time to help. John had assured him that he didn’t have many things in his bedsit anymore, as items had slowly migrated over to B over the past several weeks. John assured him that a large cab would do the trick.

He took the Tube to the hospital and descended into the cold, sterile labs below. “Sherlock!” Molly greeted him cheerily. “I thought you’d be by.” She brought him to the remaining pieces of Owen’s body, laid out on a metal table. He’d dried out a bit by now and Lestrade was staring at the remains, looking grim. He grunted a greeting at Sherlock and looked away from the pieces.

“Despite the state of the body,” Molly began, “we could tell that his spleen and parts of his liver and stomach had been partially removed.”

“Were they recovered?” Sherlock asked, bending to get a better viewing angle up into the torso.

“No.” Lestrade said.

“He was slit across the throat.” Molly pointed at the crusty laceration by his neck, “but that’s not what killed him.”

She handed both of them a sheet of test findings.

“Flunitrazepam.” Sherlock murmured, reading it. “A date rape drug.”

“Rohypnol?” Lestrade frowned. “That’s nasty stuff. It makes people disoriented and uninhibited. It gives victims amnesia and it dissolves really well in carbonated drinks.”

“Yep.” She said. “I don’t know how much was in his system initially, as the body had been in the water for so long. Evidence of fifteen milligrams of it were found in Owen’s tissue. Dixon’s limbs didn’t have traces of anything.”

“That doesn’t mean he wasn’t given anything.” Sherlock memorized the contents of the sheet and gave it back to Molly.

“Fifteen?” Lestrade echoed in disbelief.

Sherlock shook his head. “It would only take one or two milligrams to knock someone out.” He pulled out his phone and looked up the drug. “It’s typical for an _entire package_ of Rohypnol to contain twenty or thirty milligrams. It’s safe to suggest that Owen was dosed with even more than fifteen milligrams before he was killed. The time in the river and his own metabolism would have degraded the amount found in his body, but why on earth did the murderer give him so much?”

Lestrade frowned, “maybe he…misjudged the dose.”

“Maybe he has no idea what he’s doing.” Sherlock muttered. “At Dixon’s crime scene, John said himself the killer didn’t know anatomy. His dosages are off, his anatomy is off.”

“He must have failed out of Murder University. I hear the education is to die for.” Lestrade grinned at his own stupid, off-color joke. Sherlock and Molly stared at him, not amused.

“Sorry.” He mumbled.

Molly spoke up. “A dosage that high would have killed them for sure. Flunitrazepam is a depressant and with this amount, the respiratory system would have stopped.”

“Were the organs removed prior to his death?” Sherlock asked.

“No. He was dead. Thank God…” Molly looked at the covered face of the corpse sadly. “There was some mud inside one of his pockets.” She said, “I know how you like to run organic material, so I ran it.” He looked up at her in interest and she brought him to her computer and he sat down in front of the graphed results pulled up on the screen, “there’s what was in the mud. I thought at first it was just Thames grime, you know? But I figured you could make more sense of it.”

Sherlock read through the results and pulled out his phone to double check data. Two texts. He ignored them for the moment and thumbed into his soil sample catalog.

“That soil composition originates in Norwich….specifically in the region of The Broads.” He mused.

“My grandparents had a cottage there.” Molly said. “I went a few times when I was a child.”

“Oh yeah?” Lestrade looked up at her. “Is it a nice area? I’ve never been.”

“It was fun. There’s kind of a lot of old people and if you’re not into boating, your activities are limited, but—”

Sherlock stood up. “If anything else arises, let me know.”

“Sure!” She waved good bye and kept talking to Lestrade.

Sherlock strode out of the lab. He read his texts. Both were from John.

_Where are you? —JW_

_We’re seeing M & B tonight, remember. —JW_

Sherlock made a pouty face at the phone. Dinner. People and wine and sitting, ulgh. He headed for the Tube and texted him back.

_On my way home. Molly is expecting results tonight. If she texts me during this dinner, I’m leaving. —SH_

_Of course. Love you —JW_

_Love you too. —SH_

He put the phone away. It was a little white lie, yes. He was expecting nothing from Molly, but there were lives at stake here! John would understand that! Saving lives was well worth the lie. Even John would agree.

* * *

Sherlock strolled up to B’s door. His gaze zeroed in on a white thin cardboard envelope only slightly bigger than a sheet of A4 leaning up against the black shiny finish. Possibly post, but it was never left on the pavement. He put his leather gloves on and picked it up, examining. Thin. Cheap. He sniffed it. It just smelled like cardboard and possibly car exhaust. The markings on the envelope were generic—it could have been purchased it in any chemist’s or Tesco. It had his name and address in Arial font on a sticky label affixed to one side. There was no return address.

He went into the foyer and closed the door behind. He shook the envelope. Nothing. Likely it wasn’t a bomb and it didn’t sound like there was powder or anything else in there. It bent easily and Sherlock opened it up. It wasn’t even sealed. He extracted the piece of A4 inside and blinked in horror at the content of the page. It was a collage. And it was from Sebastian. Photos of Sherlock taken from around the city were pasted onto the paper and little cutouts of hearts were surrounding the images. Seb had taken separate images of himself and put them beside Sherlock so it looked like they were beside each other in the photos.

He shoved it back into the envelope, his heart pounding. He needed to tell someone. This was getting to be too much. He squeezed the cardboard. How could he say anything _now_ though? He already had two and a half months’ worth of texts in his phone. If he was going to say anything, he should have said it after the first text. It would be pathetic to say something now, wouldn’t it? And honestly, it wasn’t that bad. It’s not like Seb was being violent. He was just annoying. He was always annoying. He imagined telling John, and his sad and disappointed expression. He grit his teeth. He refused to entertain it. Everything was fine the way it was. He finally had a dom he loved and who loved him back. Said dom was moving in today and he refused to do anything that would mess that up.

Sherlock went up the steps and into the flat. John was in the loo. He went to the bedroom and hid the envelope under the bed where John never looked.

The toilet flushed and soon his doctor appeared.

“Hey, love.” He greeted. “Ready to go soon?” They kissed and Sherlock firmly ignored the envelope and his stupid arse old dom.

The trip to the bedsit went mercifully fast. The place had come furnished, so it was really only a few boxes of personal items that needed moving. The driver helped them unload in B’s foyer and Sherlock gave him a big tip for his trouble.

He closed the door behind the driver and saw John grinning down at his stuff. He slipped his hands around his doctor from behind and kissed his temple.

“I moved in.” John said. “That bedsit is gone forever.”

“Yes…regrets?”

John looked up at him. “None.” His tone was confident and they snogged hard. Both of them ignored the opening front door. Mrs. Hudson squeaked with happiness. “Oh John, it was today? Congratulations!” She edged past them with her shopping bags, completely unbothered by their groping and grabbing kisses. “I’m so thrilled for you two.”

John pulled back for a moment and smiled at her. “Thanks, Mrs. Hudson. I look forward to calling B my home.”

Sherlock nuzzled his hair.

“I think you’ve calling B home for a while now, dear.” She said.

“Yeah, I have.” John grinned. She went into her flat and they kissed a bit more. “Let’s bring these up.”

Sherlock nodded and pulled away regretfully, then grabbed a box.

* * *

Both of them were on their laptops a couple hours later, the remains of lunch scattered around the kitchen. Sherlock had his foot up on John’s knee as they both looked at their respective screens.

An email alert popped up in the corner of John’s screen. It was from Sherlock. Hm. He glanced up at his sub, who seemed to be holding his breath, and opened the link. He blinked at the webpage. He’d been expecting a medical journal article or some kind of new findings in the exciting world of tobacco ash but what he saw was far more entertaining.

It was an adult roleplay site that sold costumes, props, lingerie and the like. The link was specific to school roleplay and featured tight-abbed models in Headmaster and professor wear. John grinned at the stern looking men and women wearing glasses and bearing canes. He opened up his bookmarks. He’d saved a similar site a couple weeks ago (specific to student outfits, of course) and had wondered if Sherlock would be even remotely interested. It was his wardrobe full of costume pieces that had inspired John’s search for role play (even though the wardrobe items were for cases), and he hadn’t been brave enough to bring it up yet. John sent him the link to his own bookmarked site and heard Sherlock click a couple times. They stared at each other over the tops of their screens.

“How have we not talked about this yet?” Sherlock asked.

“I don’t know.” John looked at his watch. “We have three hours until we need to leave for Mike’s.”

They stared at each other. “Now?” John asked. He licked his lips.

Sherlock stood up. “I think I have some passable public school clothes...”

“I have something in one of my boxes, I know I do…I’ll need to find it though...”

They nearly tripped over themselves and each other as they ran to the bedroom to find clothes. Sherlock opened the wardrobe and John found the box containing the outfit he’d thought of and grinned, closing it back up. He didn’t want Sherlock to see yet.

“Wait,” John said, “how do you want this to go?”

Sherlock shrugged, sifting through trousers. “I’m a naughty student. You’re Headmaster Watson. Punish me for some ridiculous transgression.”

“Okay.” John fingers twitched as he thought of ideas. “Okay, what do you definitely not want to do?”

“No cane. Other than that? I’m fine with whatever.”

“Okay.” John thought for a moment. “Come here, I want to check your bruises.” He beckoned him over and Sherlock took off his shirt. John turned him towards the light and eyed the yellow marks. He’d diligently applied the arnica and it seemed to have helped. He reached for Sherlock’s waistband and the sub unbuttoned and unzipped. John pulled his clothes down and looked at his bum. There too the bruises were faded to barely anything. “How is it?” He put his palm on the skin.

“Healed plenty enough for you to give it some attention, _Headmaster._ ” He winked at his dom over his shoulder. John pulled his clothes up, delighted they were doing this. Sherlock bundled an outfit together. “I’ll change in the loo and then… wait in the sitting room?”

“Sure.” John said, “Or—you wait outside the door, like it’s my office, and then I’ll call you in? Does that work?”

Sherlock smiled. “Yes, it does.”

* * *

Ten minutes later Sherlock was standing outside the flat’s closed door, feeling giddy and silly and slightly stupid which just made him feel more giddy and silly. He ensured his ivory button-up shirt was untucked and unbuttoned at the collar. His cuffs weren’t buttoned as well, giving him an overall unkempt appearance. He’d found a pair of black trousers that had a hole ripped in the knee and put them on. He ruffled his hair, mussing it, and purposely made his tie too loose and long. He glanced down at himself again, suppressing a grin, then slid into the right headspace. No longer was he Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective extraordinaire and sub spectacular, no, now he was a naughty schoolboy about to be called in by the headmaster to be disciplined. Sherlock licked his lips, his fingers waggling with nerves. He had no idea how this would go and that added to the thrill.

With a final breath, he knocked on his own door.

“Enter.” John’s voice. Sherlock pushed open the door and blinked a few times. John had moved the furniture around. The desk was pulled away from the wall and cleared off, save for his own laptop and a desk lamp and a pencil cup. A stack of papers was stacked neatly in the corner and it looked, well, not unlike the desk his own primary school teacher had looked. A thick wooden ruler was beside the laptop. One of the desk chairs was missing, replaced with a simple wooden stool. Sherlock looked at John. His dom was standing in front of the coffee table, wearing a black suit with a black waistcoat underneath patterned in very thin blue plaid lines. It looked tailored. His shirt was a pale blue that matched the plaid and a pocket square the exact shade of navy as his eyes was tucked against his breast. Damn. John didn’t wear suits very often and Sherlock was pleased to see they worked on him _very_ well. A pair of gold glasses rested on his nose and Sherlock felt something shift in his pelvis when he saw them glinting on his dom’s face. Hm, _that_ was interesting….

“You asked for me?” Sherlock drawled, staring at his Headmaster with a sardonic expression. He kicked the door closed.

“Open that door, and close it properly.” His voice was stern and Sherlock turned around and opened and closed it again.

“Better. Now come in, Mr. Holmes.” John glanced over Sherlock’s unkempt uniform, the dangling tails of his shirt and his ripped trousers. He hummed in disapproval.

Sherlock sulked into the sitting room and dropped to the sofa, propping his foot up on the edge of the table. “Will this take long?”

“That’s up to you. Stand, please.”

“I’d rather sit.” Sherlock looked up at him, eyes blazing in defiance.

“Sherlock Holmes,” John’s voice was quiet and firm. “Get on your feet, _now._ Come here.” John pointed to a spot on the floor.

With a put-upon sigh, like John had asked him to move mountains, Sherlock got to his feet. He shuffled to the center of the room and stuck his hands in his trouser pockets, tilting his head to the side, staring at John.

“From what I understand,” John said, “you’ve been smoking on school grounds.”

Sherlock didn’t answer. John began to walk in a slow circle around him. “Is that true?” He asked, stopping behind him.

“So what if it is?”

“That’s entirely against the rules, Mister Holmes.”

“Fuck the rules.” Sherlock growled. A sharp, hard smack landed on his bum and Sherlock gasped.

“Don’t you _dare_ swear in my presence.”

Inwardly, Sherlock smiled at this. John was the only person Sherlock had ever heard that dropped the F-bomb at least five or six times while simply making tea in the morning. Hearing him get ‘upset’ about swearing was almost enough to make him break the scene with laughing.

“Yes, sir.” He said.

John came back around and Sherlock stood a bit straighter.

“Surely you know smoking is very bad. Very naughty, Mister Holmes.”

“Yeah, so?”

“I would think a bright boy like you would know better. Not to mention it’s against school rules.”

“I don’t care about the rules.” He said.

“You’ve been warned about this.” The Headmaster said, crossing his arms. “You’ve been warned that repeated disobedience will earn you nothing but a trip to my office. I know your parents were called the last time this little incident took place, but it appears whatever discipline they imposed on you had no effect whatsoever.”

Sherlock looked down, clasping his hands behind his back. He rubbed his stinging cheek as John scolded him, feeling genuinely chastened ( _It’s not even real!)_ and content in an excited sort of way. It was humiliating as hell to admit that John scolding him was a turn-on—which was exactly why the doctor was rambling on in his ‘Captain Watson’ voice about rules and obedience.

“Do I make myself clear?” John finished.

“Yes.” Sherlock said dully.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, you make yourself clear.”

“No cheek. Address me properly.”

“Yes, you pompous arse.”

John blinked, a hint of genuine amusement crossing his face before he schooled his features back into something stern. “Oh, you are getting punished for _that._ ” The Headmaster grabbed his arm and turned him, landing a few more swats on his bum. Sherlock shivered and his cock tingled. “Lines, Mister Holmes.” He pointed at the stool. Sherlock made a face and watched him grab a pencil and a piece of lined paper, setting them down in front of the stool. “Fifty times in your best penmanship: I will not smoke.”

“Lines?” He rubbed his backside again, the sting of John’s palm dancing delightfully over his skin. “No way. Can’t you just suspend me?”

“Eager to spend time away from class? _Sit down_.”

Sherlock sat and stared listlessly at the paper. “Anything is better than this place.”

Headmaster Watson crossed his arms, looking pissed off. “I’m getting sick of this snotty attitude, Holmes. Keep it up and you’ll walk out of here with a sore, well smacked bottom.”

Sherlock blinked at him, then grudgingly turned to the paper and picked up the pen.

“Good boy.” John sat across from him and opened his computer. Everything was quiet for a few moments. Sherlock wrote the sentence a couple times, but was soon distracted. His bum was stinging on the hard flat stool and his cock was awake and interested now. Sherlock spread his legs and slipped his left hand down the front of his trousers. He fisted his thick, growing cock and squeezed. It felt sublime. The warmth on his backside and the pleasure in his front was delicious and he closed his eyes, gently jacking himself.

“Holmes.” The Headmaster said.

Sherlock looked up at him.

“What on earth are you doing?”

“Writing l-lines, sir.” Sherlock licked his lips.

“Both hands on the table.” He instructed.

Sherlock put his left hand on the tabletop.

“Leave it there. If I catch you at those filthy habits again, you’re getting a bare smacking over my knee, understand?”

“Y, yes, sir.”

Sherlock wrote a couple more sentences and John got up. He walked into the kitchen and the moment he was out of sight, Sherlock’s hand went back into his pants. _Oh it felt wonderful._ He rocked on the stool, the pleasure at his front mixing with the pain on his bottom. He took a breath and the pen slipped out of his hand as his cock twitched happily in his hand.

John appeared in the doorway. He licked his lips and watched Sherlock jack himself off, his lips pink and wet and his eyes closed in pleasure. “Holmes!” He snapped. “What the hell are you doing?!”

Sherlock looked at him with lusty eyes. “Masturbating, sir.”

John smiled for a second at the brutally honest omission, quickly covering his face with his hand. He schooled his expression after a moment and snapped back at him. “Get up! And get your hand out of your pants!”

Sherlock reluctantly pulled his hand up and John grabbed him by the arm, pulling him to his feet. “That’s filthy.” He scolded. “You’re a filthy boy with dirty habits.” John bent him over the desk. He smacked his bum a couple times with his hand and Sherlock moaned.

“I don’t approve of that at all, Holmes.”

“S, sorry, sir.” His face flushed.

“You’ll learn.”

John unbuttoned his trousers and pulled them and his pants down.

“Sir?” Sherlock asked. “Please, not bare!”

“Bare, Holmes. This is to be a memorable punishment since nothing else seems to work.”

_Slap! Slap!_

“Maybe you’ll remember this next time you want to smoke on school property! You’ve had a foul attitude ever since stepping foot in my office.” _Swat! Swat!_

Sherlock arched up, hissing in pleasure. It felt good more than it hurt and Sherlock smiled as John scolded him.

“I tried to be nice.” John snipped. “A lecture would have sufficed. But you pushed me, Holmes. You pushed me with your attitude and foul habits.” _Swat, smack!_

“Please, sir! I’m sorry!” Sherlock shuddered and pleasure pooled in his hips and danced up his spine. He twisted up, sneaking his hand back to try and protect his bum.

“Don’t you dare!” John pushed him down on the desk, keeping in place with a hand on his back and Sherlock squirmed around. He enjoyed the swats and bucked his leaking cock forward. Any moment now…

John paused after a few smacks. “There now.” He rubbed the small of his student’s back. “That was a good start, I think. You’re nice and warm.”

Sherlock lifted his head blearily. Start? Sherlock felt him reach and he glanced up, gulping when John hefted the ruler.

“Sir I think I’ve learned my lesson.” He said quickly.

“Ha! It doesn’t matter what you think. I’m giving you the spanking so I decide.”

Sherlock whimpered into the table, trying to seem pathetic.

“Hush now.” John’s hand was on his back. “Almost there. Just a few good swats with this and you’ll be set. Alright?”

“Y, yes, sir.”

“Good lad.”

The ruler crashed on his thighs in a burst of hard stinging pain. Sherlock jerked and yelped.

“I think you need some help staying still, Holmes.” John reached around and grabbed his hard cock and balls in his hand.

“Oh, Jo—S, sir!”

John gave him another firm swat across both thighs and he groaned, squirming and howling and begging as the Headmaster whacked him repeatedly with hard strokes on his legs. His cock was ready to burst and his backside was so warm. John’s thumb was rubbing back and forth over the wet tip of his cock and he was using his strictest Captain voice. Sherlock bit his lip, jerking his hips like crazy.

“Do you have anything to say to me, Holmes?” John asked, his voice breathless.

In response, Sherlock groaned and spilled over the desk, splattering over the sheet of paper containing the lines. John rubbed his arse as he humped and Sherlock panted and shivered with delight.

“Oh…” He hissed, slumping on the desk.

John put the ruler down and patted his cheek. “Do you have anything to say to me? Maybe an ‘I’m sorry, Headmaster Watson?’” John suggested.

“S-sorry, Headmaster Watson.” Sherlock took a deep, shaking breath and John grinned.

“Or maybe an ‘I’ll never do it again, Headmaster Watson?’”

“I’ll, I’ll ne-never do it again, H-Headmaster Watson.”

“Good.” John rubbed his thighs, smoothing the sting away. “That’ll do, Mister Holmes.” He patted his waist, sweat-soaked through the shirt. “Dismissed.” He said. Sherlock panted and John stroked his back and hip.

“Fucking hell, John…” Sherlock rubbed his face.

“That was delightful, love.”

Sherlock pushed up and rubbed his hand through his messy hair. He glanced down at his shirt, damp with his ejaculate. The inked lines on the page were smeared to nothing.

“So much for lines.” He muttered. He looked up at John and grinned. John took off his glasses and tossed them on the desk. “Was is it good for you?” Sherlock asked.

“Oh yes. You were so naughty.” John pulled him into a hug. He was trembling. “Sh, sh, was it alright?” He asked, stroking over his sweating back.

“Yes. Like this on you…” Sherlock rubbed his hand over John’s chest, fingering the buttons on the suit. He touched the waistcoat and rested his hand on the hard bulge in John’s trousers. He dropped to his knees before his dom and unzipped his trousers.

“Good boy.” John rested his butt on the desk and watched his sub pull his cock out of the soft fabric and give it a long lick. “Mmm,” John smirked as Sherlock bobbed and sucked and licked. He sighed in pleasure and twisted his fingers in Sherlock’s hair.

“Mm, good, so good. You make me feel so good, Sherlock. This is wonderful.”

Sherlock sucked him deeper, egged on by the praise. John hissed and tightened his fingers in Sherlock’s hair and Sherlock pulled off. He wrapped his hand around John’s cock and pulled fast and loose. John groaned and clenched his arse cheeks.

“Oh, fuck, Sherlock, that’s so fucking good…”

“Who has dirty habits now?” Sherlock mused.

John laughed, then growled and spilled hot and hard over his sub’s hand.

“God,” John groaned with a smile, “we should have done this an age ago.”

Sherlock stood and smoothed his clean hand over the pocket square.

“You really like this suit, huh?”

“I wouldn’t have thought you’d own a bespoke suit.”

“Yeah, I clean up pretty nice, hm?” John touched the side of his face. “You look every inch the misbehaving boy. _My_ misbehaving boy. John kissed his lips. “A shower? We have to get ready for dinner soon.”

Sherlock nodded and they went to the loo, both stripping off clothes as they walked.

* * *

At seven pm they arrived at Mike and Betsy’s flat complex. They were each dressed in jeans and buttoned shirts. Sherlock had wanted to John to stay in the suit, but John had reasoned that not only would a three piece suit be way too formal for dinner at an old friend’s flat, but the suit was covered in both their sweat and needed a wash. Sherlock relented in the face of logic with a small pout.

“Remember what we talked about.” Sherlock said, shuffling the six pack of beer to his other hand. “If I get a case break, I’m outta here.”

John sighed. “Of course.”

Sherlock buzzed their door number.

“ _Hello?”_ Mike’s voice crackled.

“Hey, Mike. It’s us.” John answered.

 _“Hey! Come on up!”_ The door unlocked and both men entered and headed for the stairs. John was grinning to himself, thinking about the roleplay, but Sherlock’s thoughts were elsewhere entirely. He’d looked up Vincent Coel’s address this afternoon, and he lived delightfully close to Mike’s. Lestrade had said he spoke with him, but Sherlock really wanted to talk to him himself and pick up the pieces Lestrade undoubtedly missed. He had a plan to speak with him, a plan that John _would not_ be happy with. Which was fine—John didn’t need to know.

“John! Sherlock!” Mike opened his door and gave them both a hearty hug and a big smile. “Come on in!”

“Hi Mike.” John said, stepping inside when beckoned. “How’ve you been?”

“Good, good. Hello again, Sherlock.”

“Mike.” Sherlock shoved the alcohol at him. Mike took it, surprised.

“Ah, that’s for both of you.” John said. “From us.”

“Thanks, guys!”

Betsy swept out of the kitchen with her red-gold hair back in a bun. She was wearing an apron that read ‘never trust a skinny chef’. “So good to see you boys again!” She gave John a big hug, then Sherlock a big hug. He grunted and tried to step back and John smirked. “Welcome, welcome.” She said. “Mike can get you something to drink and then dinner’ll just be a few.”

They all traipsed back to the kitchen and John saw the chocolate brown leash trailing from the silver chain glinting on Mike’s neck, the end of it tucked into a pocket. The dominant inside of him reared up at the sight and he licked his lips. Oh God if only he could collar and leash Sherlock. _Christ._ The night they did the bondage he had wrapped the rope around the base of his neck as a sort of play faux collar, but a _real_ collar for him to wear all the time would be amazing. He’d have it on at crime scenes under that posh scarf. When he was in Bart’s lab at the microscope it would peek out under his shirt. Everyone would see it and everyone would know who put it there. He would love nothing more.

“John?”

“What?” The doctor looked up.

“You alright?” Mike smiled. “You zoned a bit.”

Sherlock was watching him with a curious brow up.

“Oh, sorry, um, what did you ask?”

“What’s your poison?” Mike asked.

“I think I’ll stick with water.”

“Water it is.” He handed John a bottle. “Sherlock?”

The sub’s nostrils were flaring at the scent of baking fish and roasting potatoes.

“Does this interest you, Sherlock?” Betsy asked.

“A bit.” He said.

“Good.”

“Water, Mike. Thanks.” _Want to keep my head clear for later when I talk to Coel._

* * *

The table was silent, save for the sound of clinking silverware and chewing, as they all tucked in to their baked salmon portions and crispy herbed potatoes.

“How is it?” Betsy asked, grinning as she watched her guests and sub enjoy her food.

“Delicious as always, Sweets.” Mike winked at her.

“A tad dry.” Sherlock said.

“Sherlock!” John snapped. “I can’t take you anywhere—it’s amazing, Betsy. Thanks so much for asking us over.”

She laughed. “You’re very welcome, John.”

Sherlock was only half paying attention to them and his food. He’d set his alarm to go off any moment, then he’d pop over to Coel’s, talk with him, then get back here before John left for the evening. They were nearing the end of the meal and Sherlock knew they would want to sit around and chat afterwards.

Mike was talking about teaching or some God awful thing and Betsy and John were actually _listening._ Not just listening though…John had his eyes fastened to Mike’s collar and leash. Did he even realize how he stared at it? Like a thirteen year old boy enchanted by a woman’s cleavage.

The conversation shifted to John’s work at the clinic and some tedious story about a mother and father who didn’t want to vaccinate their child and Sherlock’s phone alarm blessedly chimed.

_*Ding!*_

He pulled it out and switched off the alarm. “Molly.” He lied to John. He tapped his thumbs over the screen as if texting her back, then stood.

“A break in the case?” Betsy asked.

“Hopefully…”

“Really?” John looked surprised. “I’ll go with you.” He put his napkin on the table and started to stand.

“Oh, _no_ , you don’t have to.” Sherlock said. _Dammit John!_ “I’m just going over to Bart’s. Stay here.” He dropped his voice. “Enjoy yourself.”

John stared at him. “Are you sure?”

“Of course.” He waved him off. “I’ll come back if it’s not too late.”

John relented and sat back down.

“Text me when you get there.” John said. “And when you’re leaving.”

“Yes, yes. Thank you for the meal, Betsy.” He nodded graciously and grabbed his coat, sweeping out the front door.

John watched him go. Something uneasy was lurking around his chest. “I should have gone with.”

“He’ll be fine.” Mike said, grabbing more potatoes. “He’s gone to Bart’s a thousand times.”

* * *

Sherlock ducked into the dim alley beside Mike’s building. A lamp on the corner cast the alley in dank light, highlighting the rusty skip and puddles pooling in the uneven concrete. Sherlock glanced around the back of the skip and saw his duffel bag waiting just as promised. A member of his homeless network had come through once again, picking up the duffel from Baker Street and bringing it here. He couldn’t exactly have brought it with himself, as bringing a duffel to a dinner would be odd even for him. He picked it up and pulled out the faded skinny jeans and tight grey Rolling Stones Tshirt—the tongue logo licking right across his chest. He changed in seconds and stuffed his other clothes into the duffel, finally exchanging his expensive shoes for the taped up trainers. He pulled a cheap play collar around his neck and mussed his hair, then carefully swiped some eyeliner on and wrapped a leather cuff around his wrist. He didn’t have a mirror, but he knew what he was doing. He knew what made doms, especially rich wealthy doms like Coel, turn their heads. He stashed everything back in the bag and left a fifty pound note at the top of the pile before zipping it up and hiding it away behind the skip. Someone would come by in an hour or so and take the cash and deliver the bag back to Baker Street. Easy peasy.

Coel’s address was just up the road and Sherlock jogged over there, getting his performance face in place. He dredged up a few tears as he ambled up the front walk and rang the bell.

Show time.

Vincent himself answered and Sherlock wrung his hands, looking at the man with puppy eyes. “Are-are you Mr. Coel?” His voice was sad and hoarse.

“Yes.” He said through the screen, concerned. “Can I help you? Are you alright?”

“I just, I was friends with Owen, and he used to talk about you all the time—what a great dom you were and all, and,” fresh tears sprang down his cheeks and Coel’s face softened. _Excellent._ “I hadn’t seen Owen in a long time and I was just hoping we could talk a little bit—Oh God, it sounds so _stupid_ now.” He covered his face. “I’m sorry, I’ll leave—I shouldn’t have—”

“No, no, son. Come on in.” Coel stepped aside and Sherlock gave him a watery look.

“Really?”

“Sure. For a bit. I have to go into London for an early meeting tomorrow, but I can spare a few for Owen’s friend.”

“Thanks.” Sherlock gave him his best shy smile and crept inside. “You have a really nice house.” He said, glancing around. Lestrade was right about the guy being well off. The home was furnished in clean modern lines and dark wood. Leather furniture and the scent of wood oil and peppermint and fine whiskey tinted in the air. It was masculine and minimal yet the ruddy leather sofa, blankets and pillows, and seventy inch flat screen TV hinted at a man who liked comfort. Price was an afterthought here, not a hurdle.

“Please, have a seat.” Coel gestured to the sofa and Sherlock sat down, his knees together and his shoulders hunched as he peered around. “Would you like something to drink? Tea or coffee or anything?”

“I’ll have water if it’s not too much trouble.”

Coel left the room and Sherlock opened a drawer in the cube-shaped coffee table. Lubricant and a Wartenburg wheel. A feather. He closed it and opened the drawer beside it. Business magazines about trading and stock. The TV remote control. Blu Ray disks. _The Fast and the Furious_ and _Alien_. He closed the drawer seconds before Vincent came back in the room with a bottle of water and a tumbler of whiskey.

“Here you are.” He handed Sherlock a bottle of Evian and he smiled again.

“Thank you, sir. I didn’t mean to barge in like this. I just—Owen always said nice things about you—how great you were and patient.”

Vincent smiled indulgently and flicked his eyes to Sherlock’s collar. “Owen was a good boy. I bet you’re a good boy too.”

_Oh God, this was too easy!_

Sherlock giggled and turned away. “I am sometimes. When my dom says I’m not being naughty.”

Coel grinned and Sherlock sobered up quickly. “I just can’t believe he’s gone you know? How long were you guys together? It seemed like forever.”

“It was about two years.”

“God.”

“I would see Owen now and then.” Vincent said. “He had school and I work pretty grueling hours in the city. I would have gone to his graduation. He was due to graduate soon, yes?”

“Uh,” Sherlock scrabbled briefly, “he had a term or two left. I would only see Owen on school breaks. We grew up together, but we grew apart a little as we went off to school and, you know, life happens. I can’t believe he got murdered!” Sherlock wiped more fresh tears away and took an offered tissue box.

“The police were here just two days ago talking to me about it.” He said in a sympathetic voice. “It was alarming to have Scotland Yard’s finest show up on my doorstep,”

 _The Yard’s finest, but not THE finest,_ Sherlock thought.

“They questioned me about Owen. Hell,” He chuckled, “for a while there I thought they thought I did it!”

“Oh wow!” Sherlock gushed, alarmed.

“But of course I didn’t.”

“Phew.” Sherlock smiled. “Saved by the alibi.”

“Something like that. I do hope they catch the killer soon and bring that boy some justice.”

Sherlock noticed him glance at a clock on the wall and sip his whiskey.

“What would you guys do together?” Sherlock asked.

“He’d meet me in the city sometimes and we’d go to museums or dinner. Or just spend time here.”

“I bet you took him to nice places.” Sherlock winked and giggled. “Lucky sub.”

Vincent smiled at him. “Yes, we did enjoy indulging in the finer things now and then.”

“Owen didn’t like to kiss and tell much, but it sounds like you two had all kinds of fun together.” Sherlock winked, assuming the wheel and the lube in the drawer spoke of Vincent’s taste.

“That we did.” Vincent said. He set his whiskey down and moved over until he was sitting beside Sherlock on the sofa. “We had all sorts of fun together.” Vincent said, brushing a few curls behind Sherlock’s ear. “How’d you like a tour of my home?”

_Uh oh._

“Oh, it’s getting late—you have that meeting.”

“I can be late.” Vincent put his hand on Sherlock’s knee.

* * *

“He hasn’t texted…” John sent a fifth text to his sub, asking if he got to Bart’s okay. The meal was mostly over and there were only a few leavings left in the dishes.

“He probably forgot. Maybe Molly got a bunch of diseased limbs in and he’s tearing through there like Christmas morning.” Betsy smiled.

John chuckled uneasily. “Yeah. Maybe.”

* * *

“Er, I think I’ve seen enough.” Sherlock said. _Think! C’mon, stupid, think!_

Coel rested his hand on his shoulder and Sherlock giggled. “If I didn’t have a dom, I wouldn’t mind, but…”

“I don’t mind. And your dom doesn’t need to ever know. We’ll be quick.”

* * *

Molly Hooper was at a friend’s house, watching a movie while tucked under a checkered blanket. A bowl of popcorn was balanced on her knee and her friend was curled on the armchair. Molly’s ringtone broke through the air and she set the popcorn aside.

“Sorry Tiff.” She said, lifting the blanket and pulling the purple and white phone out of her pocket. John? She trotted into the other room and answered. “Hey John.”

_“Hi Molly. Sorry to bug you—did Sherlock get there okay?”_

She blinked. “Sherlock? What—can you not find him?”

_“No. He said he going to see you about the results. He said he’d text me when he got there, but I haven’t heard. I’m just, well, worried.”_

Now Molly was confused. “I…I gave him some results this morning, about Owen, but I haven’t heard from him since then. Is everything alright?”

 _“You’re not at Bart’s?”_ His voice was flat and irritated.

“No. I’m at my friend’s place. I have been all evening.”

_“Son of a bitch.”_

John hung up and Molly winced. “Oh Sherlock,” she murmured to the blinking display. “What have you done?”

* * *

 

“Molly’s not there.” He said to Mike and Betsy. “She never texted him—there were never any results!”

“What? He _lied?_ ” Betsy asked.

John shrugged helplessly. “Or he was kidnapped.” Panic seized his chest and he grabbed his phone and dialed his sub’s number again as Mike and Betsy jumped up from their seats. “He’s not answering!” John growled.

“We’ll find him, John.” Mike was putting on his jacket.

John tugged at his hair. His chest was getting tighter. Sherlock was out there somewhere and there was a bloody _murderer_ on the loose who liked to kill subs who looked just like him. Perfect. Great. How could he _not_ think the worst? Oh God, if anything at all happened to him...

“I’ll go look for him.” Mike said. “There’s a couple bolt holes I know of.”

“I’ll go with you.” John said, standing.

“You stay here, John.” Betsy told him. Mike waved good-bye and was gone.

“But he could be—”

“—Mike will check the places he knows of. You don’t both need to be there. We can cover more ground if we’re separate.”

John took a deep, annoyed breath.

“Where else do you think he would go?” She asked calmly. Betsy walked over to the curtains and pushed one aside, peering up and down the street.

“The flat maybe.” John called Mrs. Hudson. It rang twice.

_“Hello?”_

“Mrs. Hudson! Hi—It’s John from B. Upstairs.” He added stupidly.

_“Oh. Hello John. Is everything alright? You sound frazzled, love.”_

“Is Sherlock there?” He asked.

_“No, I don’t think so… I’ll check the flat….”_

John drummed his fingers on the back of an armchair as she made her way up the steps. He felt sort of bad bothering her, but _Sherlock was missing!_ He wanted to shout it from the rooftops. He wanted to plaster it up on all the big screens in Piccadilly. He could have been kidnapped! Where the hell had he gone? John rolled his eyes as Mrs. Hudson called into their flat and knocked.

_“No dear, he’s not in. He’s not with you?”_

“No. If he comes, can you call me?”

_“Of course.”_

“Thanks.” He hung up.

“Not at home?” Betsy asked.

“No.”

He called Sherlock again. Still no response. He swore loudly and scrubbed his hands through his hair, pacing around the room.

“You’re not going into Defense on me, are you soldier?”

“No.” John mumbled. “Not yet. Do you have any idea where he could have gone? You’ve known him longer than I have.”

She hesitated and looked away.

“Betsy…” John pressed. “Please? If you have _any_ idea.”

“I’m not saying this is where he is, but he’s been in and out of drugs since I’ve known him.”

“Oh God…” He breathed.

“I don’t know if he’s still using at all.” Betsy added hastily, “I just know that when we were first dating, Mike would sometimes bring him here to sleep it off safely.”

John nodded, a new respect for Betsy blooming. Staying with someone who would bring their junkie friends home to sleep it off couldn’t have been easy in a budding relationship.

“Thanks for doing that.” He said. “For letting him stay with you.”

“It was no trouble.” She said. “He’s sweet, in a way. I worried about him.”

John decided that Betsy should meet Mrs. Hudson. They’d probably take to each other like ducks to water and swap recipes and cook.

At that moment, a text came through from Mycroft.

_Missing something? —MH_

A grainy image of Sherlock wandering up the street in jeans and a Tshirt was attached to the message. The photo was timestamped for about half an hour ago.

“Ah what the _fuck_ …” John zoomed in on the photo. “What the hell is he doing…?”

The phone beeped again. Another text from Mycroft containing an address for a house just up the road. John bit the inside of his cheek and slid his phone into his pocket. He strode out into the foyer and grabbed his jacket.

“John? Is he alright?” Betsy followed.

“He’s fine. Long story short—he decided to take a walk and now he needs to be picked up. Thanks for the meal Betsy, I’ll call you guys tomorrow?”

“Uh, sure.” Betsy wished him a good night and watched, worried, as he left.

* * *

Sherlock cranked on the tears. “I would, I really would, I just miss Owen so much!” He sobbed. It sounded a little forced, but he was desperate now. He didn’t think Vincent would really try anything, but Sherlock was more concerned about getting his cover blown.

“So do I. We can comfort each other. Let’s go to my bedroom. We can do the things that he enjoyed and remember him together.”

“I think I’ll get going. Thanks for everything.” Sherlock stood up. If Vincent touched him again he’d drop the ‘silly sub’ persona like a hot rock and slug the guy across the face.

_Blam! Blam! Blam!_

The front door rattled under the force of the blows. Coel and Sherlock both jumped. “Who on earth is that at this hour?” Coel turned the knob and a furious John Watson shoved him aside and stormed into the room. He was bristling with rage. His hands were clenched into fists and his glittering glare swept the room, landing first on Coel before bouncing over to Sherlock. John blinked, looking genuinely shocked at the sight of his sub crying before he turned to Coel and grabbed him by the lapels, the fire in his eyes blazing bright and his breaths coming in fast pants.

“What the fuck is my sub doing here?” He growled. He slammed Vincent into the wall and a framed picture of a boat crashed to the wood floor.

“Jesus Christ!” Coel yelped. “He showed up here! I’ve never even met him before tonight!”

John stared at him for a few seconds more and let go, striding over to Sherlock.

“Are you alright?” He glanced over his sub and touched his arm, then snarled at the collar.

Sherlock stared at John’s dark, dark eyes with his own mouth open in shock. His dom’s lips were red and his face was flushed. He was taking deep breaths and he was hard in his jeans. Sherlock wondered how long he’d been in Defense. “I’m fine.” Sherlock assured him. “Let’s go.” _Before you kill Coel._

“Outside.” John snapped. He pointed at the open door and Sherlock trotted out onto the pavement. John turned to Coel, still pressed against the wall. Neither dom said anything and John drew himself up as tall as he could go, staring Coel right in the eye. He blinked and looked away and John smirked. _Yeah, that’s right._ He paced out of the house and slammed the door closed behind. Sherlock was lingering on the pavement by the street, wringing his hands. This time it wasn’t part of the dopey sub facade. The doctor paced back and forth, clenching and opening his fists. He breathed the cool air in deep, long breaths to try and clam himself.

“John—”

“—Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”

John glanced him over. “He didn’t hurt you or anything?”

“No, not at all.”

“You’re crying.”

“It’s an act.”

 _It won’t be when I get through with you._ John took one more fortifying breath and Sherlock gulped, trying not to tremble. Seeing John get so…so, _dominant_ in there, over _him_ had been…interesting. Definitely a journal entry. Sherlock had been fine inside with Coel, even bordering on the more dominant edge of his submission as he maintained control of the situation. But John storming inside and slamming Coel around, his red hot anger and boiling blood had dropped Sherlock’s control in an instant and made him tremble. He crouched down, hugging himself. What he really wanted was to roll onto his back and show his belly. He’d upset his dom, and his natural submission was roaring loud, telling him to do whatever John wanted. He’d let the man fuck him right here in the street and then piss all over him if that’s what he demanded.

“Up.” John snapped at him. “Not here.”

Sherlock stood, still feeling small and wrong footed. John was going to punish him for sure. There was no way he wouldn’t.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The info on Flunitrazepam and dosages was found on wikipedia. Some of it could be inaccurate. 
> 
> For anyone who reads my Experiment series, I do have plans for another installment on that. It should be up at some point after I finish posting this fic.


	22. Punishment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock realizes that going to Coel's house wasn't so bright. John really likes aftercare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains lots of schmoop and fluff.

The cab ride was silent. John sat rigid in his seat and Sherlock curled up on the bench beside him, resting his face on John’s leg. The doctor’s hand was in his hair, his fingertips gently rubbing his scalp. Sherlock could feel the hard tension in the thigh under his face. He listened to John’s slow measured breaths and appreciated that the man was using the cab ride to calm himself down and hopefully get himself _out_ of Defense. He was pissed off for sure, but he _was_ rubbing his head, so it couldn’t be all that bad. John paid the cabbie at 221’s door. Sherlock had left his cash in the duffel at Mike’s.

“Oh, dears.” Mrs. Hudson popped out of her flat when they stepped into the foyer. She opened her mouth to say more but fell quiet when John stalked past her and up the steps.

“Are you alright, love?” She took Sherlock’s hand and glanced after John.

“Yes, f-fine.”

“He’s upset?” Her voice was hushed and she squeezed his hand. “His hackles are up—is he in Defense?”

“Not anymore. I made a mistake.”

“Oh, you two will sort it out over a nice cuppa, you’ll see.”

Sherlock was pretty sure John had more than a cuppa in store for him.

“Sherlock!” His name was roared from the top of the steps.

Mrs. Hudson gave him a final squeeze and he jogged up the stairs, manfully drawing himself up to face his angry dom.

John was pacing when he stepped into the sitting room. He was as tense and tight as he’d been at Coel’s. The familiar space and absence of danger had likely calmed him, and Sherlock knew from reading that a dom in Defense was soothed by his or her sub’s presence. When he saw his sub he stopped pacing and pointed at a spot on the floor in front of him. Sherlock licked his lips and crept over, expecting a slap across the face or to get shouted at.

“Who’s is that?”

Sherlock glanced at him and realized John was pointing at the collar.

“Mine.” Sherlock touched it. “It’s a play collar.”

He pursed his lips, but didn’t say anything. He took him by the forearm and dragged him towards the corner behind the red armchair.

“John?!”

“Get in the corner.” John deposited him there and stepped back. He scrubbed his hands through is hair. This had been _ridiculous_. Sherlock was safe and here and unharmed and John was _beyond_ grateful that his beloved sub had come back safe and sound. Christ, just the thought that he would be out there somewhere getting hacked up. Bleeding and hurt…

John blinked back tears and strode into the bedroom. He paced back and forth, breathing. His Defense had been intense and violent and the worst of it had passed at Coel’s. The cab ride home had given him more time to calm down. He rubbed the back of his neck. Dwelling on what could have happened wasn’t calming him down. Sherlock was unhurt and fine. But, now he needed to be punished. They had talked about this—rules and discipline. The paddle was in order, as far as he was concerned. He sighed. The paddle was awful, plain and simple. It hurt and it stung and it burned but that was rather the point. A few other ideas for punishment darted though his head. He wasn’t going to use the crop or the flogger. Sherlock had requested that he not use the cane. John didn’t care for it either, so that was off that table. He dismissed the other ideas. If they weren’t coming out of a rough patch, he would be giving him something tougher or longer than the paddling. He didn’t want to go too hard though. This had been dangerous as hell, yes, but he wouldn’t—couldn’t do more than the paddle. He still wasn’t done hating himself for that botched scene. That stupid fight had just exacerbated how badly he felt as well.

This would already be hard for both of them.

John made a mental note of the things that had gone wrong tonight and came up with a pretty impressive list. He took another deep breath. He was pissed off with his sub, but he was thinking clearly. This wasn’t at all like the other day with the flogging. No, he was in complete control.

He went out to the sitting room.

Sherlock looked up at him with worried eyes. “John, what are you going to do?”

“Come with me.” He beckoned with a finger. Sherlock followed him back to the bedroom. “Take your clothes off.” John snipped. “Leave your pants.”

Sherlock tugged his shirt over his head and tossed it on the chair. His trousers followed and he was soon standing there in just the collar and his white pants.

“John?”

“I’m going to punish you, Sherlock,” he opened and closed his fists, “for your reckless behavior tonight.”

“But,” Sherlock licked his lips. “I just had to talk to him for a little bit.”

“No!” John shouted. He stepped towards his sub and pointed at him. “He is a _suspect_! He could have been the murderer—he still could be!”

Sherlock stepped back. John had never shouted at him like this. He didn’t like it one bit even if a part of him kind of thought he deserved it.

“You shouldn’t have spoken with him at all!”

“I, I’m sorry.”

John wasn’t hearing it. “You could have been out there killed and dead somewhere with some lunatic chopping up your insides!” He took a breath. “I was so _worried_. Do you have any idea how worried I was?!”

Sherlock looked away and bit his lip. He took a shaky breath. “I see now.”

“Yeah! Good! Mike was out there looking for you! I called Mrs. Hudson. I called Mycroft—I called Molly. I bet I sounded like a tit on the phone, asking her if you got to Bart’s okay.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything. He was hunched in shame, looking at the floor. He hated this! He had made a dumb mistake and everybody knew about it and now John was angry and he hated John shouting at him and he hated that he was deprived clothing while John was fully covered. This wasn’t at all like the fun, sexy scolding John indulged him with earlier today in the school scene or weeks ago at his bedsit when he packed that suitcase. This was real and awful and his dom wasn’t done.

“I was worrying myself sick all while _you_ gallivanted off to play copper!”

Sherlock looked up and drew himself to his full height. He took a breath. “I’m do not ‘play copper.’ I solve cases. That’s my livelihood, John.” His voice was stubborn and strong. “I take what I do seriously.”

“I know.” His voice was marginally softer. “I didn’t mean to imply that you don’t. But there’s better ways to do it!” He snapped. Neither man said anything and John rubbed his forehead. He sat on the edge of the bed, preparing himself. It was for Sherlock’s own good that he was going to spanked, but it would still be hard.

“Get over here.”

Sherlock took a step forward, paused, then walked over to him. John spread his knees and took his sub’s arm firmly and guided him down over his right thigh. Most of Sherlock’s torso was supported by the bed. “You’re getting a warm up and then you’re getting the paddle and I don’t want to hear a word of complaint. You use your safe word if you need to, but otherwise I want you thinking about just how foolish this was and why you ended up over my knee.”

Sherlock squirmed and grabbed up some handfuls of bedding to squeeze. John was so upset with him. He’d never been this angry with him. Sherlock bit his lip. And now his arse was going to pay the price.

John yanked his pants down to look at his bum. During the roleplay, he had focused mostly on Sherlock’s thighs but he had given his bum some attention too. God, had that only been this afternoon? It had been such sexy silly fun, light years away from how they both felt now. He hadn’t planned on a punishment this evening. Had he known Sherlock was going to do something so utterly insane and stupid, he would have held off on the roleplay—or at least done something else with it. His sub’s backside looked fine though. His timely application of arnica had made the minimal bruising from that crap flogging all but disappear. His thighs were faintly pink from the ruler. John sighed and pulled the pants back up over his trembling cheeks. He raised his hand and slammed his flat hard palm into his sub’s bottom. Over and over and over he spanked and Sherlock squirmed and clenched over his lap.

It wasn't fun.

It wasn't sexy.

It was hard, flat pain that simmered through his bottom and made him feel like a naughty sub who'd disobeyed his dominant. He wished more than anything that John wouldn't be upset with him but he also knew that that wouldn’t begin to happen until the spanking was over. He squeezed the bed sheet, whining softly in his throat as the pain deepened into something harsher and longer lasting. John was smacking him pretty hard and he would feel this tomorrow for sure.

Tears slipped down his face and Sherlock wiped his eyes furiously, angry at himself and the case and Coel and Lestrade and John and even Mike and Betsy for having their stupid dinner in the first place. He shuddered and the hard smacks stopped. John was breathing hard above him. They sat there for approximately three seconds, both panting, before he growled, "get up."

It didn't occur to Sherlock to disobey. He scrabbled up as fast as he could.

"Corner." John pointed to the corner by the wardrobe and Sherlock grabbed his bottom to rub—

"—No!" John said in a firm voice. “Leave it! Hands on your head."

Sherlock scurried over to the corner and stood there facing the wall and edge of the wardrobe door. He fidgeted, wiping his eyes irritably. He clasped his hands behind his head and felt the sweat in his hair. His arse _ached_ and his cock was soft and small, not at all interested in this kind of spanking. This was awful. He heard John shift on the bed and he risked a glance over his shoulder. The doctor was facing him, his arms crossed over his chest, and he raised a brow when Sherlock looked over. He whirled and hastily focused back on the wall.

"Ten minutes." John said. "And don't you dare make me make it longer."

Sherlock shook his head fast. "No, John."

They stayed silent for the next ten minutes and Sherlock thought about that hated paddle and his sore bottom. The bed creaked. John came closer and Sherlock went still, hunching his shoulders. He half expected another blow across his bum, or to be grabbed and yanked out of the corner.

“Hush.” John’s voice was a soft whisper and he rested his hand on Sherlock’s nape, squeezing gently. The sub relaxed. John opened the wardrobe door halfway and crouched down, grabbing his box. Sherlock closed his eyes. He didn't want the stupid paddling. He watched out of the corner of his eye as John pulled the awful red paddle out and closed the box.

He tucked it up under his arm and turned Sherlock out of the corner.

“John, come on, can’t you do something else?”

John peeled the protective shield of cotton pants down. Sherlock kept talking.

“You already spanked me—there has to be something besides the paddle.”

“I told you that this,” he held it up, “would be for the worst offenses. What happened tonight was a bad offense.”

Sherlock rubbed his scalp as John pulled his pants off and tossed them on top of the rest of his clothes.

“But…” Sherlock wasn’t even sure what to say. He didn’t want to be punished at all!

“You know your safe word.” John said.

“Yeah.”

“Tell me.”

“Stradivarius.”

“Do you need to use this word right now?”

“No.” He whispered. John thought he deserved this punishment, and he respected his dom enough to take it even if he didn’t like it.

“Then quit wasting time and get your butt on the bed. Lay on your belly.” John pointed at the bed with the paddle and Sherlock scurried over, crawling onto the duvet and grabbing more handfuls of sheet. John pressed his hand to the small of Sherlock’s back and started thwacking him with the paddle over and over.

Sherlock howled. Again and again John slammed the paddle into his cheeks, alternating sides with blistering burning swats. A dull sort of flat _pop! Pop!_ filled the air along with Sherlock’s wails.

“John—Ow! OW!” He wriggled out of John’s grasp, twisting his hips around.

“Hold still!” John barked. He pushed him back into place and held him down and continued with the hard blows. Left side, right side, repeat. John had found that for punishment, standing up to use the paddle was far more effective. He got a stronger swing and it was much easier to control a wriggling submissive that was laying down while he stood.

“Jooohn!” Sherlock twisted again, rolling completely onto his side, his arse away from John. This was _terrible_! That paddle hurt like hell! Pressure built up again behind his eyes. It hurt—oh yes it did—but he had upset John. And that hurt just as much.

“Do you want to safe word?” John asked. He looked his teary sub in the eye. His heart clenched and broke a little at the sad expression on his sub’s face, but he didn’t allow himself to show it.

Sherlock gulped. It was tempting, and his backside suggested he do so immediately.

“Hm?” John pressed. “If you say the word, I stop smacking you.” He twirled the paddle in his hand. “We’ll talk about it, this, us, and the rules we’ve agreed on. ”

Sherlock licked his lips. Of course he wanted it to stop, but John thought he deserved this. John had decided he deserved the paddle for going to Coel’s. No, John was his dom and he would take what his dom handed out.

“No.” He said quietly.

“Good boy.” John pulled him back onto his belly and hooked his hand around his warm thigh to anchor him to the bed. He smacked his bottom again. Sherlock jerked and tried to pull away.

“Stay still!” John smacked his thigh.

“I can’t! I’m sorry!”

John wasn’t hearing it. He whacked the paddle down on his right cheek, then left, then right…finally he paused and Sherlock let out a deep shuddering sob into the sheets.

John glanced over his bottom. It was splotched bright pink, vivid and neon. Time to talk. “Let’s talk about why you’re getting the paddle.” John began. “I’m sure you know—genius that you are—but let’s humor me. Tell me why you’re here.”

Sherlock panted into the mattress and John could see his sides heaving. His bottom was like a tomato in the center of the bed. “I,” he began, “snuck away from dinner.”

“Yes.”

“And…that was bad.”

“Why?”

“Because it was rude.”

“It was. Didn’t we talk about rudeness before?”

“Yes.” Sherlock muttered.

“Yes, we did.” _Smack! Smack!_

“Ah!” Sherlock kicked his legs out. John knew that telling Sherlock to not be rude was like trying to keep the sun from rising, but it was good to remind him now and then

“Stay still!” John snapped. “Why did you decide that the middle of Betsy’s dinner was the best time to lie and sneak away?”

“Because Coel lived so, so near to their flat. I thought that if I c-could pop over and come back,” _sniffle_ , “no one would be any wiser.”

“That didn’t work out very well, did it?”

“No.”

“You will apologize to Mike and Betsy for ditching the meal they so graciously provided for us. What else?” John asked. He patted Sherlock’s bare thigh.

“I lied.”

“About…?”

“Going to Bart’s?”

“Why did you lie to me about going to Bart’s?”

“I didn’t think you’d want me going to Coel’s by myself.” Sherlock said.

“Clearly!” John barked. “I would not have let you wander over _by yourself_ to the home of a suspected murderer!” He was shouting now and Sherlock cringed, very aware that his poor sore bottom was still very vulnerable and his angry dom’s paddle wasn’t very far away. He hated this!

“Nothing happened, John! I didn’t want anything to happen—I wasn’t going to cheat on you if that’s what you’re worried about—you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me and I love you!” Sherlock buried his face in his arms, embarrassed by the burst of sentiment.

“I’m glad you feel that way. I love you too. I love you more than anything Sherlock. That’s why we’re doing this.”

Sherlock groaned and kick one foot petulantly.

“Coel still could have been the murderer.” John told him. _Smack, smack!_

“John!”

“Hold still!” _Smack, swat!_

“I can’t--it hurts!”

John examined the color of his arse, running two fingers over the hot skin. Very pink and getting darker, but no bruising yet. Good.

“Lying to me is never okay. If you lie, you get the paddle. I love you to death, Sherlock, if you got hurt or killed because of some stupid lie…?”

“I know! I’m sorry—I’ll never lie to you again!”

“Damn right!”

He raised the paddle again and laid a series of fast, hard blows.

“Ow! Ow! Ow!” Sherlock arched up, wriggling like a wild thing. John wanted him to stay still, but he didn’t begrudge him moving around so much. When he’d been paddled with this thing, he’d behaved the same way Sherlock was. Everyone did. The paddle was hell on a bare arse. John paused, catching his own breath and giving Sherlock a break. “What else?” He asked.

“Um…uh….”

John placed the paddle against his bottom, a hint of cool flat rubber. It had the desired effect.

“Oh, um…” Sherlock squirmed and gripped a couple handfuls of blanket. “I didn’t tell the police?”

“Good. You didn’t tell Lestrade.” He patted his bottom with every word. John lifted it off and Sherlock ducked his head down, tensing—

_—Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack!_

Sherlock squealed and jerked up again.

“Why should you have told Lestrade?” John asked.

“Be-because it’s a police investigation and it’s dangerous for me to go off on my own with a serial killer out there.”

John eyed his bottom. It was a lush splotchy crimson and John was sure it felt as painful as it looked.

“Exactly. And that brings us to our last point—danger.” John rubbed his sub’s back. They were almost finished. “You do not put yourself in dangerous situations—on purpose. I know that what you do is inherently dangerous. Solving crimes puts you, us, around some unsavory people.”

Sherlock nodded. His shoulders shuddered with tears.

“But,” John continued, “that doesn’t mean you need to go seeking those situations out! What if Coel was the killer? You would have been alone in his house with him, he could have murdered you in his basement.”

“L-Lestrade didn’t think he was the murderer.”

“But no one knew that for sure.” John told him. _Smack! Smack!_ “At the very least you should have told me what you wanted to do! Even if I didn’t approve I would have known what was going on!”

“Yes, I see that now. I know—I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He cried into the bed and John touched the sore skin again, examining. Sherlock tensed up. John nodded to himself. Red and tender. That looked highly effective. He held his hand just over one cheek, palm up, and felt the heat radiating off of him. He let Sherlock be for a moment and went to his box. He put the paddle away and took a bottle of cream. He set it on the side table. Sherlock was curled on his side, his fingers loose on the wrinkled sheets and his face buried in the cotton. His shoulders still trembled with tears. John took a deep breath. It was over. Thank God. It was over and most importantly, Sherlock was safe.

He rubbed his bicep and rotated his shoulder to stretch is arm, then unbuckled his belt and pulled his jeans off. He switched them out for pajama bottoms. He took off his cardigan, damp with sweat from the fear of having lost Sherlock and the exertion of punishment. He threw it and his shirt into the laundry basket, then put on a comfy Tshirt. He crawled up on the bed behind his sub and Sherlock tensed up. “Hush, sweetheart.” John made his voice soothing and he stroked and rubbed his back. “It’s over now, just breathe and settle. I’m here when you want to—”

Sherlock rolled over and wrapped his arms and legs around his dom, clinging tight like a barnacle. John smiled and gently unbuckled the play collar and eased it off his throat.

“No.” Sherlock grabbed John’s wrist.

“You want to keep it on?”

Sherlock nodded. “I, I like it on my throat when I’m, when I’m like this.” His whole body was warm and flushed from the spanking and John replaced the collar. He patted his thigh some more and petted his shoulders.

“I know that was harsh, love, but you really freaked us all out. Just relax now. You’re safe and you’re mine. I’ll take care of you…sh…” John murmured more sweet things and eventually the tears slowed and stopped. Sherlock turned his face up, resting his cheek on John’s chest. He breathed deep, taking a moment to bask in all his dom’s attention. “I have cream when you’re ready.” John stroked some hair away from his forehead.

Sherlock sighed, his brain slowing some more as his submission took over now that the worst of the pain was fading.

“I just wanted answers.” Sherlock said.

“I know. You always want all the answers. There’s just better ways to go about finding said answers. If you had Lestrade with you and if I was aware of the situation, it would have been fine. If you had me with you, it would have been fine. Better, anyway.”

Sherlock was playing with the drawstring on John’s pajamas and the doctor thumbed away the tears on his face.

“Is it, over?” Sherlock asked.

“What, love?”

“The punishment.”

“That’s up to you. Will you wander off by yourself to visit a murder suspect ever again?”

“No.” He grumped.

“Then it’s over. Case closed.”

The detective sighed and touched his red bum, wincing at the tender heat.

“Cream?” John asked.

“Yes.” Sherlock didn’t move.

“Love, I need to sit up.”

“No.”

“If you want the cream, I need to sit up.”

“No.” Sherlock buried his face in his chest and clung tighter if possible.

John drummed his fingers on Sherlock’s back. He looked over his shoulder. The cream was just behind him, and really, he could reach Sherlock’s arse the way he was curled up. Was he going to indulge in this ridiculous behavior? Yes, yes he was. He managed to free his arm and grope behind himself until he found the tube.

Sherlock smiled into his chest.

“I see you smiling.” John said in a gruff voice. Sherlock rubbed his face into the Tshirt and inhaled his dom’s scent and sighed in contentment. John rolled his eyes fondly and freed his other arm, mashed as it was into the pillow. He squeezed some goop onto his fingers and reached down, smearing it over his red skin.

Sherlock hissed and clung tighter.

“Sh, sh. Hold still, good boy, hush.” John murmured nice things to him as he smoothed the cream over both cheeks, getting a generous amount on there. “Your bottom has taken a lot lately.” John noted, rubbing circles over the skin.

“It can take more—as long as it’s not more paddling.”

“No. No more paddling. You shouldn’t bruise, anyway.”

“Mmmm.”

“I can’t reach your thighs.” John mumbled.

“M’thighs are fine.”

John capped the tube and set it down, wrapping his arms around Sherlock again.

“Such a lucky sub.” The smile was obvious in John’s voice. “Your dom soothes you after punishment with lotion in bed.”

“I am a lucky sub.” Sherlock said quietly. “You keep me right, John.”

The doctor was stricken for a moment at the quiet, honest admission. “Someone should.” He said fondly.

“Mm…have you been punished?”

“As a sub?” He asked.

“Mm-hm.”

“I have.”

“How?”

“This paddle, for one.”

Sherlock looked at him.

“A couple other ways too.” John said.

“How?”

The doctor smiled. “Up now. My back is starting to act up.”

“My arse is acting up.” Sherlock grumbled.

John snickered. “Up.” He patted his shoulder. “For real this time.”

With a long, drawn out sigh, Sherlock scooted backwards. John stood up and stretched, his back crackling. He started to walk to the kitchen—

“—Where are you going?” Sherlock asked, lifting his head.

“Making tea.”

“Stay here.”

“Can’t make tea in here.”

Sherlock got up and John hid a smile. He strolled out to the kitchen. As he expected, Sherlock followed very close behind, nearly walking into him. Subs liked to be close to their doms after punishment. John saw it every time he either punished a sub or had a particularly intense scene with someone. He did it himself too, the rare times he earned punishment from a dom. He enjoyed the proximity and he liked watching over his sub.

John poured fresh water in the kettle and turned it on. His heart quivered when Sherlock wiped some residual dampness from his eyes. He didn’t regret that hiding, but he hated having to discipline his sub. He went to the cabinet and took down the tea box and Sherlock followed, one hand on his waist. The kettle boiled and John took down two mugs from the shelf. Sherlock idly cupped and touched his ribs and bottom. John’s protective dominance swelled as Sherlock touched him and stayed near and he knew they’d be spending the rest of the evening very close together. Fine with him. He chucked a teabag in each mug and poured boiling water over them both. Sherlock watched over his shoulder, stroking his dom’s hip as the bags steeped. He was being very quiet and John took that as a good sign. If he was really having a problem with anything going on John knew he would be hearing about it. Hell, the neighbors and Mrs. Hudson would be hearing about it. He threw the teabags in the sink and added sugar and milk as needed.

“Here, love.” He said kindly. “Drink it all.” Sherlock accepted the mug, sipping. John stood up on tiptoe and kissed his forehead. He pulled his phone out of his pocket. It was just after midnight. “Let’s go back to bed until we get sleepy—look at me.”

Sherlock glanced up from his mug, looking at John with luminous eyes.

“Hmm, yeah, you’re under pretty good.” John murmured.

Sherlock looked down at the mug and nodded. They went back to the bed. John set his tea down and stripped out of his clothes. He put Sherlock’s tea beside his own and they slipped into the sheets. Sherlock whined as the cotton rubbed his bum.

“Aw. It’ll feel better tomorrow.” John hugged him close. Tomorrow would be a day for spoiling his boy. He couldn’t help it. After punishments he was such a softy, something he was sure Sherlock would detect and take full advantage of. He was looking forward to it.

* * *

 Sherlock’s nose woke him the next morning. His nostrils flared and he blinked in the morning light. The bed beside him was empty and cold and a big mug of steaming coffee was on the side table, as was his phone. A note was taped to the ceramic cup.

_Morning, love. Text me when you’re up and I’ll put more cream on your butt. John_

Sherlock smiled at the note and slipped a hand back to his bum. Oh, he was sore. He rubbed fingers over the skin and hissed. They’d fallen asleep really fast last night and Sherlock fancied he could still feel subspace edging around his mind. He didn’t like being in subspace alone. He wanted John.

He grabbed his phone and texted,

_Come to the bedroom. Now. —SH_

 Seconds later, John was walking into the room. He smiled at his sub and grabbed the cream off the side table. “Hey.” He sat on the bed.

“Hi.” Sherlock leaned up and they kissed. “Get naked with me.”

“Alright.” John snickered. “Do you want breakfast?”

“Yes, but I want you naked more.”

“Well then.” John pulled off his Tshirt. He kicked off his pajama bottoms and Sherlock grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the mattress. “I’m coming, I’m coming.” John tugged off his pants and tossed them over his shoulder, then knelt on the bed and looked down at him.

“Still under?”

“I think a bit. Not much.”

“Hm.” John sat up against the headboard. “Come here, I’ll put this on and we can eat something.”

Sherlock threw himself over John’s thighs and sighed when his dom added more cool lotion to his backside.

“Is it very red?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes. Do you want to see?”

Sherlock was quiet, then, “yes.”

They got up. John opened the wardrobe to reveal the full length mirror. He pulled his sub into a hug and Sherlock looked over his shoulder at his arse. It was as red as an apple. The color was smooth and even, not splotchy or bruised at all. John peered past his shoulder with a sort of feral expression.

“The paddle is efficient.” Sherlock grumbled.

“Yep.” John ran his hand over the skin and Sherlock shivered, both at the mild pain and just the sight of John’s hands on his body. “Beautiful.” John murmured. “How did I get so lucky? Such a gorgeous sub.” John kissed his arm. “An intelligent, genius sub.”

“John.” Sherlock’s neck flushed and he looked away.

“I mean it. You’re the smartest person I’ve ever met—by a long shot. And I love you.”

Sherlock’s neck was red with embarrassment. “Love y’too.” He muttered. John kissed his nose and reached up to touch and tug on the collar in a teasing way. “What do you want for breakfast?”

“Eggs. Sausage.”

“Toast?”

“Yes.”

“Alright.” John patted his thigh. “Let’s go. You can help me.”

Sherlock found his blue dressing gown. He put it on and flung the striped one at John. Covered, they both went out to the kitchen. Sherlock sipped his coffee and handed John items as requested. “Feed me?” Sherlock asked when it was nearly done.

“I’d like that.” The doctor piled the eggs and sausages onto a big plate and added four pieces of toast with butter and jam. “Let’s eat in there.” John nodded at the sitting room.

John sat crossed legged on the floor in front of the green chair. He threw some pillows in front of him and Sherlock knelt down.

“Comfortable?” John asked.

“Yes.”

“Move around if your arse hurts.” John cut up a sausage and speared a piece and held it out and Sherlock accepted it off the fork. “So,” John said, “did you find anything out at Coel’s at least?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “The evening wasn’t a complete waste. Not only did I discover that he’s a randy old bastard, but it seemed Lestrade was right. I don’t think Coel is the killer either. He’s too preoccupied with his work. He didn’t seem to give a toss that his sub was dead. It wasn’t serious between them.”

“Molly said she talked to you yesterday morning.” John took a bite of egg and then offered some to Sherlock.

“She did.” He took the eggs and chewed. “She ran Owen’s tissue and found Flunitrazepam.”

“Roofies?” John blinked.

“Fifteen milligrams.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yes.”

More sausage and egg. John sipped his coffee. “Was the other one, Dixon, dosed too?”

“She didn’t find anything on him.” Sherlock eyed a piece of sausage and John took the hint.

“It might have degraded by then.” John chewed his toast thoughtfully.

Sherlock nodded. This was nice. They were both mellow and comfortable again and it was clear John didn’t harbor any bad feelings about last night. Sherlock had wondered if he would get some sort of silent treatment today but that was clearly not the case.

“What’s it like?” Sherlock asked, “being in Defense?”

John smiled. “Um, well, it’s like I have this desire to kill and destroy anything that’s making me feel threatened, whether it’s friend or foe or human or animal. Anything that’s a threat to me or my sub can no longer live. My body chemistry changes and I get a rush of adrenaline and a huge burst of testosterone. Suppressants keep those testosterone levels low.” His face turned pink and he chuckled. “It’s a little embarrassing, really.” He shifted on the floor and rubbed his neck. “I really scared the hell out of him last night. Were you frightened?” John asked.

“Mm, I was thinking more that you would kill Coel and go to jail for it. So you went into a Defensive state because you felt threatened?” Sherlock asked.

“I felt threatened because I saw you in a dangerous scenario. So, my Defense was for both of us, I suppose. Mostly you though.”

Sherlock took an offered bite of toast, chewing happily. He was warmed by the thought that John would fly into a rage and kill a man to save him. “How many times have you been in it?” He swallowed.

“Maybe three or four times. Well, during puberty I was in an out of it. I was a moody little shit back then.”

“So was Mycroft.” Sherlock muttered.

“Dominants have a rough adolescence. We have the normal growing pains like subs have along with the floods of extra hormones that eventually even out into Defense.” He grinned. “I once ripped my bedroom door clean off the hinges when my mum tried to ground me. She didn’t let me have a door for two weeks after that.”

Sherlock laughed.

“Can’t say I disagree with her...” John mused.

“But you’re a switch.” Sherlock pointed out. “Why did you go through the same hormonal fluctuations that a dominant would?”

“It’s _because_ I’m a switch. I didn’t realize at the time that I was a switch. I thought it was my submission coming to light, or just the hormones affecting my body. My parents were both subs, they didn’t catch it. Harry is a dom but we didn’t want much to do with each other so it’s not like I could get advice. It turned out fine in the end.” John gave him the last forkful of egg and then finished off the toast. “Full?” He asked, putting the plate aside.

“Yes.”

John leaned forward and touched the collar on his throat, trailing fingers over the cheap pleather. “You really like this, don’t you?”

“I…” Sherlock licked his lips. He liked wearing it around John, especially since getting punished. It made him feel more secure, like, like if the collar was on his skin, then John wouldn’t leave him. He wasn’t sure how to say all that though and it all sounded really silly in his head.

“We can look for something that’s not a play collar.” John said. “A more permanent option. If you, you know, want that.” John looked down at the plate, examining a chip in the glass.

“Would you like that?” Sherlock asked.

“I would.” John said. “I like when my subs wear collars. I like wearing them myself, so I know. Maybe you wearing a collar will help me to stop being such a jealous and controlling arse. A couple of my less savory traits.”

“Even with your less savory traits, you’re still saint next to me.”

“That’s not true.” John squeezed his hand.

“I like that you go into Defense when you see me threatened.” Sherlock admitted.

John scooted a little closer. “Good.” He whispered. “Maybe we can look for collars tomorrow? I get off work at five.”

“I’d like that.” Sherlock said. John smiled up at him and they kissed.

* * *

 An hour or so later, once the dishes were cleaned up and they were both dressed (John was dressed. Sherlock was in pajamas and his blue dressing gown), both men were on the sofa. John was reading a paperback and Sherlock was laying on his belly beside him on his phone, using his dom’s lap as a warm foot rest. His website was open in one window and he was scanning through requests. Another open window contained collars and leashes and Sherlock was spending more time here, examining the images of leather and velvet and chain on the screen. Now that John had brought it up, he wanted to go shopping.

The doorbell sounded. Sherlock looked up. Client? John put his book down and got up and looked out the window.

“Ah.” He smiled. “Right on time.”

“Who is?” Sherlock watched him walk across the room and go down the steps. He listened. Nothing was interesting enough to make him stand yet.

“Hi John!”

Sherlock frowned. Molly was at the door. What on earth did she want? He got up after a moment, curious, and padded down the steps.

“Hello Sherlock!” She waved at him when he was on the landing. John was holding a blue cooler and thanking her profusely. He doubted it was lunch in there.

“Do you want to come in?” John asked.

“Oh no, thanks! Blind date.” She smiled hopefully.

“I hope it goes well.” John said. “Thanks again.”

“No problem! Bye Sherlock!” She waved again and left. John turned to go back up the steps.

“What’s that?” He pointed at the cooler.

“Something.” John ascended the steps and Sherlock moved aside to let him pass. He followed, asking questions. “Like what?”

“Like a little gift.” John pushed into the kitchen and set the cooler down on the table.

“For who?”

“You.”

“Why? What is it?”

John nodded at the cooler and Sherlock opened it up. There were two pieces of dark brown tissue on ice.

“Liver?”

“Yep.” John said. “The one on the left is from an alcoholic and the one on the right is healthy—just removed in fact. Since it’s still technically living, I thought you might want to do some experiments.”

“John!” Sherlock hugged him. “Oh, living tissue! It’s Christmas!”

John kissed his nose and Sherlock ran off. He switched on his microscope and opened the utensil drawer, collecting a few scalpels. He grabbed some bottles of chemicals out from under the sink, mumbling to himself all the while about data and hypotheses. John was so delighted he could have exploded. He watched his sub fondly as he threw a pillow over the stool to cushion it and then muttered some more about tissue something or other. John turned away to go back to his book—

—a hand touched his bicep and Sherlock gave him a deep, slow kiss.

“Thank you.” He said when they broke.

“You’re welcome.”


	23. Traffic Jam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys go shopping. An old 'friend' makes a visit.

  _22 June_

_John punished me on the evening of the 20th. The reasons why are not relevant. Dominant dragged me home and shouted and put me in the corner and then proceeded to smack my bottom and then, after some time in the corner, paddle my naked backside while lecturing. Subject cried. Dominant was not moved by tears. Subject grudgingly took dominant’s point that lying and sneaking away to meet potential murderers is never okay._

_Dominant soothed crying subject after the paddling and dominant made subject and self tea and applied hand cream and arnica gel to subject’s bottom._

_Subject wore play collar. The feeling was highly enjoyable. Dominant also went into brief Defense pre-punishment. Subject was alarmed at that but enjoyed Defense (will explore Defense in a separate entry)._

_Conclusions:_

_John’s punishments are…unpleasant doesn’t even begin to describe it. It was bloody awful and I hated it—_

“Hoo hoo.” Sherlock looked up as Mrs. Hudson knocked briskly on the door. “I have your tea, love.”

Sherlock saved the document and stood up. He’d been on his stomach on the floor, as his bottom was still mighty sore. He opened the door. “Good morning, Sherlock.” She set the tea platter on the kitchen table.

“Mmm.” He grunted in his throat and wandered over to the teapot, vaguely interested.

“Is John here? I brought enough for two.”

“He’s at the clinic.” Sherlock snagged a biscuit and nibbled.

“Oh for how long?”

“All day.” He groused. “Double shift—someone’s out sick.” He said it like it was a personal affront that another doctor dare get sick and take John away from him all day long.

 

" _Will you be alright?” John asked that morning as he dressed._

_“I’ll be fine.” Sherlock watched him sleepily from the pillows as he floated back up from subspace in a meandering sort of way. He had floated in and out of subspace all day yesterday, and this morning John had made a point of waking him up before he left so he could make sure he was out of it._

_“You’re still under.”_

_“A bit. I’m coming up.”_

_“Yes.” John cupped the side of his face and looked at his eyes searchingly. “You are.” He stepped away. “I’ll be back tonight. Text me if you need anything. And call Betsy and Mike today to apologize. I mean it.”_

 

He flopped down on his green chair with the biscuit and winced, straightening up as Mrs. Hudson brought him his tea.

“Oh dear, I know that wince.” She winked at him and sat down in John’s chair. “Was he rough on you, love?”

“Yes it was bloody awful and he’s a terrible—” He stopped chewing and looked at her. “Wait—how do you know I got punished?”

“I,” she straightened in the chair and stirred her tea. “I heard you. John was shouting and…was it a paddle?”

Sherlock scowled. Of all the things for Mrs. Hudson to notice…

“Lying to your dom is never a good idea, dear. You need minding.” She sipped.

“How do you know I lied?!”

“John called looking for you, and then your brother stopped by my flat to ask about you. ”

Sherlock scowled harder into his cup.

“Don’t be embarrassed love, I’m a sub too you know. I know what it’s like to have your dom upset with you. Of course, Frank had a different view on things…it was a different time, then.”

“Yes, well.” Sherlock stood up. “You have things to do, I’m sure.”

She shrugged. “Nothing pressing.”

“I’m conducting an experiment where I put slices of liver tissue up to varying heat sources to see how long it takes each one to melt—would you like to help me collect the viscous fluid?”

“Sherlock Holmes, that is vile.”

“So that’s a ‘no’ then…?” He grabbed his blow torch hopefully and she bustled out, making a disgusted noise at him. Sherlock tossed the blowtorch on the sofa and went back to his entry. His phone chimed.

_Did you call Betsy? —JW_

Sherlock made a face at the phone, then exited out of the thread and called their friend.

 _“Hi, Sherlock!”_ She answered after one ring.

“Hello Betsy. I’m calling to apologize to you and Mike for abandoning your dinner.”

_“That’s fine, sweetie. We’re just glad you’re okay. Did you find out what you needed to know?’_

“Mostly. He’s no longer a prime suspect.”

_“Great! Was John very upset with you?”_

“Yes.” He said stiffly. “Sorry again.”

_“That’s just fine—take care of yourself. Don’t do anything foolish.”_

“Yes. Thank you.”

They hung up. Not too bad. Sherlock tossed the phone aside and went to have a shower.

 

* * *

 

 John was back at the flat before six and Sherlock was speaking to him before he’d even put his bag down.

“There’s a few collar shops that are reasonably priced and have good reviews.” Sherlock showed him a short list of places in London.

“The first thing I’m doing is kissing you.” John took the list and did just that. Sherlock cupped his neck and John squeezed his scruff. Sherlock kept talking when they broke. “None of them are far from the flat. I saw a couple different collar styles online that I like too.”

Sherlock was apparently still interested in shopping tonight.

John put his bag aside and went to wash his hands, a small smile hovering on his lips. He frowned at the slices of liver laid out on the last uncontaminated cutting board they had. The salt shaker had also been commandeered in the name of science, and it was filled with liver….bits. The place stunk of iron. John wouldn’t have it any other way. He wanted to eat something small and then check Sherlock’s bum before they went…

“We could go to dinner after.” Sherlock called from the sitting room. John grabbed a banana and gulped it down. Sherlock changed topics, veering into the various experiments he had going with the liver as he walked into the kitchen to talk to his dom. John binned the peel and wiped his fingers on his jeans, then slipped his hand into Sherlock’s and brought him towards the bedroom. He made positive sounds in all the right places as Sherlock spoke. He found the cream and set it on the side table and sat on the edge of the bed. He beckoned his sub forward and unfastened his trousers, pulling everything to his knees. Sherlock (still talking, now wondering aloud about regenerating liver tissue) obediently got over his thigh and John examined his bum in the light. It was barely pink anymore. The vivid red had faded a while ago and this was probably the last time John would have to treat the skin.

He squeezed some cream onto his fingers and smeared it over his cheeks. Sherlock finally went quiet.

“It sounds like you had a busy day.” John said.

“Experiments mostly. What about your day?”

“It’s better now that I’m here.” John smoothed the cream over the tender skin.

“Are you tired?”

He shrugged. “Not too tired to shop. Dinner sounds great.”

“Indian?” Sherlock asked over his shoulder. “There’s a place that opened just up Marylebone that gives leftovers to my network. A coupon came in the post for a free meal.”

“Sure, that sounds good.” John thought of hot fresh garlic naan and his mouth watered. “I was looking at collars on my lunch break. Leashes too.” John tugged up his pants and Sherlock stood, fixing his trousers.

“Mm…anything good?”

“Oh yeah. I was looking mainly at ones with pink sequins. Or great big rhinestones.” John stood up and hugged his sub.

“What?” Sherlock blurted.

“Barring that, there’s always glitter and gold tassels.”

“John!”

“I think cheetah print would look nice on your skin.”

Sherlock was staring at him with an impressive pout on his face. “You’re teasing me.”

John grinned at him. “Of course I am. We’ll pick something you like, darling, of course. Do you still want to wear my collar?” John’s voice was tentative and soft.

“Yes.”

“Alright then. Let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

They took the Tube to the first shop on Sherlock’s list. It was a small place that specialized in custom ordering and hand made items that unfortunately didn’t carry much in the way of collars. They perused the glass case, looking at the displayed velvet and suede options. John licked his lips. He’d never bought a collar for a sub before. He’d never wanted to. These were nothing like the cheap play collar Sherlock had worn during his punishment. These were expensive and made to last and John was getting nervous and excited just looking at everything. For the first time, what he had with Sherlock was suddenly shifting into long term. Moving in hadn’t inspired this in him much at all. But the collars? John found he didn’t even look at other subs anymore. Even if he did see someone devastatingly attractive, he didn’t even feel the urge to act on the attraction. His time with Sherlock, even though it had been less than six months, had matured him. This was real and, looking at the collars and the longevity they signified, he wanted it. This wasn’t marriage, yet, but it was serious commitment. He was a sappy romantic sod when it came to stuff like this and he wondered what Sherlock would say if he knew.

“What do you think?” John asked, looking at the displayed bands. Nothing really jumped out, but if Sherlock had his heart set on something he’d relent. He would be the one wearing it, after all.

“I want leather.” Sherlock said, staring at the suede. John caught the eye of an employee.

“Do you have anything in leather?” He asked him.

“No.” The man said apologetically. “We only carry what you see here.”

“Hm.” Sherlock turned on his heel and walked out.

“Alright, thanks for your help.” John smiled at him and hurried after his sub.

They took a cab to the next shop, and this one was more promising. There were two other couples in there, and the collar display was sizable. John slipped his hand into his sub’s and they walked over to the leather section.

“I want something light for you,” John murmured. “And not too wide, if you want. Something that’ll stay on when we’re running like mad down an alley after a crazy nutter…” John babbled as he looked down at the collars available for purchase. How on earth would they pick the right one? Was there a way to pick the wrong one? He supposed there was, there had to be. Would he just know it when he saw it? What about a leash? Oh God, yes. Sherlock with a collar on his throat, and him holding the leash. Christ, the thought nearly got John hard right there in the shop.

“You’re adorable.” Sherlock murmured beside him, a smile in his voice.

An employee appeared from a back room and spied them giggling over the case. She wandered over. “Do you two need help?” She was short and curvy and her smile was friendly. Her short hair was a warm bright pink. Her gold name tag read ‘Nina.’

“We’re just trying to pick the best one.” John said.

“This selection is awful.” Sherlock grumped.

“Sherlock.” John spoke in his fake pleasant ‘be nice or else’ voice. “It’s a very nice selection. What about something blue or green to bring out your eyes?”

“No. Not green.” Sherlock said stubbornly.

Nina stepped in. “Most of our collars can be customized. If you’d like two colors, that would certainly be an option.”

“I don’t want any of these.” Sherlock said. “I want black.”

“You’re just being contrary.” John told him.

“I’m always contrary.”

“Just try a few on.”

Nina spoke again with the air of a professional who was used to squabbling couples. “We have others that aren’t on display.”

“Show me.” Sherlock commanded.

“Please.” John added. She nodded and went to a cabinet, unlocking it. “Be nice.” John muttered. “She’s trying to help.”

“I don’t do _nice_.”

“Yes you do and we both know it.”

“Here we are.” She came back carrying a white velvet display stand holding up eight black leather collars. They were all different in subtle ways. Some were thinner than a finger, others were over an inch wide. One had a little silver heart in the front and another was fringed with black lace. All were black.

“Not that one.” Sherlock pointed at the heart. “Or that one.” He pointed at the lace.

“You seem to know what you’re looking for.” She noted.

John rolled his eyes fondly. “Yes he does.”

“May I make a suggestion?” Nina asked.

John said “please” at the same time Sherlock said “no.” She listened to John and kept talking.

“These come in different colors.” She pointed at three of the remaining collars. “I think that a sort of pewter grey would work really well with your complexion. Black would be kind of harsh.”

“Like your coat.” John nudged him.

Sherlock hummed. “Do you have these in grey?”

“I think so.” She vanished and then returned moments later with the three collars in a deep grey color. They followed her to a sort of semi closed off fitting area complete with mirrors and lots of lights. Sherlock picked one up and admired the leather in the bright little spotlights. It was less than an inch wide and solid grey, down to the buckle. He looked at John.

“Do you want me to put it on you?” He asked. Sherlock nodded. He bowed his head and John buckled it on. His fingers were trembling and he really hoped the sales girl wouldn’t see.

Sherlock looked in the mirror, touching it. He shrugged. “It’s nice.”

“There’s no D ring.” John pointed out.

“No.” She said. “That model doesn’t come with a ring.”

“We’ll need that.” John told his sub, raising a brow. “I’ll definitely need to be able to leash you.”

The detective grinned. John picked up the second collar and felt the royal blue lining. It was really soft. It was about half an inch wide.

“That’s imported leather from Italy.” Nina said. “The lining is a silk blend and very breathable.” John noted the chrome buckle and D ring. Sherlock ducked his head and John pulled off the first reject. He slipped the second one on Sherlock’s throat and buckled it. The sub looked in the mirror. He gulped and blinked at his reflection. The pewter grey stood out on his pale skin and as he moved his head, the blue would just barely peek out. He really liked the way that looked. Sherlock touched the shining silver buckle and the D ring, saying nothing. He licked his lips. He glanced at his dom’s face in the mirror. His eyes were shining.

“It comes with a lifetime warranty.” Nina said. “Any problems or malfunctions, you can send it in for free. They’ll repair it at the manufacturer’s in Florence. There’s also a case and polish that comes free with the purchase.”

“We’ll take it.” Sherlock said. John nodded.

“Does it,” John cleared his throat. “Sorry, is there a coordinating leash?”

“I can bring you the leashes we carry in this brand.” She said.

“Please? Same color if you don’t mind.”

“Of course.” Nina left.

“John.” Sherlock turned to him, both hands clutching the band.

“I really like it, love.” They crashed together in a hungry kiss. “My sub.” John growled. “All mine.” He kissed his sub’s mouth and held his crotch possessively. He hooked two fingers under the collar and tugged. Sherlock hummed in delight.

“After dinner, I’m taking you the hell down and fucking you into the mattress.”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, John. Please.” John nuzzled his neck, inhaling the sweet hide scent and his sub’s natural and familiar smell. It buzzed up into his brain and made his dominance roar.

They heard a cough and stepped apart like teens caught making out between classes. John’s face flamed up pink and Sherlock beamed at Nina.

“These are the leashes we have in stock.” She said.

“You pick.” Sherlock turned away from the selection and preened in front of the mirror some more.

“Um, uh…” John looked at the five chain and leather leashes dangling from her hands. One stood out. It was the same grey color, a good length, and studded in the center every eight inches or so with a silver circle. The lining of the adjustable handle was the same silk as the collar lining.

“This one.” John said.

“Excellent choices. I’ll ring you up at the front. Would you like to wear them out?”

Sherlock turned to her and nodded. She smiled knowingly and gave John the leash. They followed her to the front and she put the case and polish in a black paper bag.

“Thank you so much for your help.” John said, swiping his card. “It’s perfect.”

“He looks stunning.” She said, glancing up at Sherlock admiring himself in the reflection of a display case. “You both seem so happy.”

John signed the receipt and passed it over to her. “We are.”

 

* * *

 

They took a cab back to B, doing their best to keep their hands to themselves in the backseat (they failed). Sherlock paid the driver when they arrived.

“I’m going to run up and drop the bag and look for that coupon.” John patted his jeans, looking for his keys.

“I’ll wait.” Sherlock said.

“Okay.” John let himself inside and Sherlock leaned on the white tile brick beside B’s door. His leash dangled down his torso and he could hardly keep the grin off his face. He was collared! He’d never ever once seriously considered that he would want to be collared. Even today, though he’d been excited, he hadn’t anticipated purchasing. The collar, this one, felt right. It felt good on his throat and the weight of the leash was pleasing. The soft look of awe and pride and joy on John’s face when he saw him in the mirror would be etched into his mind palace forever. He was happy, really and truly.

He heard footsteps behind, but thought nothing of it. People and cars were going to and fro in the early evening.

“Hey, Freak. Told you I’d be by.”

Sherlock went utterly still at the horribly familiar voice. He shivered, a tide of memories drowning the happy feeling away.

“Sebastian.” He turned around, standing straight and peering down his nose at the man. Seb had always hated that Sherlock was taller than he was. Good. He looked more or less the same. Maybe a little more sallow in the face. He’d been drinking a lot, Sherlock could tell by the look in his dark eyes and the flush riding high on his cheeks. He was very familiar with how Seb looked while tipsy.

Seb looked at the leash and collar and made a face. “Oh look at you. Collared like a bitch.”

“What do you want, Seb?” Sherlock hissed, stepping into his space. He would have never spoken like that or made such a threatening gesture when they were dating.

“Just came by to say hello.”

“Hello.” Sherlock said. “Goodbye.” He started to turn away, to go into the flat—

“—Wait, wait.” Seb grabbed his shoulder and Sherlock shrugged him off.

“Don’t.” He growled.

“Wait, just listen to me for a sec.”

“No.”

“Sherlock! You haven’t been answering me. I was worried.”

“No you weren’t.”

“Of course I was. Come on, we dated for like ten years.”

“So?”

“So I was worried?”

“I don’t care. I don’t need you worrying about me. Stop contacting me.”

“Did you get my envelope?” He smirked.

Sherlock blinked and forced his face into a neutral expression.

“Ah, you did!” Seb pointed at him. “You’re doing that thing with your face where you try to hide everything.”

“Get away from me.” Sherlock stepped back, intent on going upstairs. Seb’s face darkened. “I trained you better than that. I trained you to respect dominants. You’re the kind of sub that needs a hard hand, baby. Come on home with me and I’ll show you where you belong.” Seb came closer to him and Sherlock stepped back, shaking his head.

“Hard to get? You always loved playing that. I’m not playing though, Sherlock. I want you with me. _Now_.” Seb grabbed the leash and yanked. Hard.

 

* * *

 

John put the bag away in the bedroom and rooted through the piles of recent post, whistling. He’d meant to grab the coupon before they left but had completely forgotten. Good thing the restaurant was so close. He shuffled through junk and bills, finally finding a group of discount leaflets.

“Here we go…” He flipped through them. Chinese, burgers, Vietnamese, some kind of kebab thing, ah, here it was— _Mumbai Gardens._ He put the leaflets down and made sure he had his wallet and phone. Now where had he put the keys? They couldn’t have gone far. He patted his pockets and didn’t find them. Hm. He went into the kitchen, no, the loo, no. The bedroom? He found the bag on the chair and his keys beside it. He picked them up, jangling, and shoved them in his pocket. Alright then, coupon, money, keys. He stepped out of the door and shut it, jogging down the steps. He couldn’t wait for that naan, and maybe a nice chicken curry…

“Going out, love?” Mrs. Hudson’s door was open and she looked to be in the midst of cleaning. A kerchief was tied around her hair and she had yellow rubber gloves on.

“Yeah, we’re trying that new Indian place up the way.” John said, waving the leaflet.

“Oh excellent.”

“Can we bring you anything back?”

“Oh no thanks dear! That’s sweet of you to ask. You have a good time, now.”

“Thanks.” He stepped out of the flat and froze. A stranger was clutching Sherlock’s leash. His back was to John but the look of anger and fear on his sub’s face was palpable.

“Hey!” John growled, bristling.

Sherlock glanced up at John, a sort of apologetic relief coming over his face. The stranger dropped the leash and John strode over to his sub’s side, getting between the two of them. He crossed his arms and tilted his head back, staring the dom down.

“Is he bothering you, love?” He asked Sherlock.

“Love?” Seb blurted.

“It’s Sebastian, John.” He murmured in his dom’s ear.

John smiled his special little smile that Sherlock knew meant ‘danger’. He had seen flashes of it at Coel’s when John was in Defense. For a single second, Sherlock almost felt bad for Seb. Almost. Then he remembered what Seb would do to him. How he called him names and made him feel worthless. He stepped back as John roared and punched the man hard across the face.

“What the hell?!” Seb shouted. He staggered, the blow almost bringing him to his knees.

“You _bastard._ ” John grabbed his lapels, hauling him upright again. Oh yes, he was in Defense. That hadn’t taken long at all. His eyes were dark and glittery and his cock was rock hard. He was snarling and growling and so angry he was actually spitting.

Seb at least looked properly terrified.

“You _cunting fuckbag_.” John hissed. “How _dare_ you show up on my territory and threaten me and my sub. How dare you _touch_ him!”

“He wanted it!” Seb yelled. A livid bruise was rising around his eyebrow. “I was coming to see why he didn’t text me back!”

“What?” John growled.

“Oh yes.” Seb looked at him. “He didn’t tell you? Of course not. I’ve been texting him. Hundreds of texts and barely any replies.”

“Sherlock.” John grit out. “What is he talking about?”

“Nothing.” Sherlock snapped. “I don’t want anything to do with you, Seb!”

“Such a little pussy.” Seb snarled. “You were always such a little bitch, Sherlock.”

With that, John spun him around and lobbed the man into the evening rush hour traffic.

 

* * *

 

Gregory Lestrade was on his way home from work. He was in his own vehicle, which was rare, but it had needed some work done and he’d taken the Tube to the mechanic’s after his shift. He’d forgotten how awful London traffic was. His preferred route was congested as hell, so he’d decided to take a few less direct roads to avoid time in traffic. It was nearing the end of the rush, so hopefully he could get to his flat at a semi decent hour. He was cooking dinner for Molly Hooper tonight as a sort of semi-date thing and he wanted everything at his flat to be perfect. He sipped his coffee, hot and delicious and decaf.

He turned onto Baker Street, heading south. The traffic was moving so far, and long as nothing bad happened, he could—

—a body slammed into his windscreen.

“Jesus Christ!” Lestrade pounded the brakes. The paper cup in his hand crumpled as he reflexively grabbed the wheel. Delicious coffee flew everywhere, soaking him and the seat and windows. He pulled over with a screech of tires and the body rolled off and into the gutter. He sat there for a moment, stunned, before he got out only a few yards up from 221. He crouched beside the man in the gutter and took a pulse, horrified and praying the guy wasn’t dead. There was a pulse, though faint. He needed a doctor. Lestrade stood up. He was right outside B. If John was in, he could pop down and examine him. Lestrade turned to walk to the door and stopped in his tracks. John was standing, fists clenched and feet planted shoulder width apart. He was smiling in a sort of grim, satisfied way at the man in the road.

Sherlock was behind him, his mouth open in shock and delight. Greg had never seen him so surprised.

“John?” Lestrade asked.

“The fucker had it coming.” John snarled.

Greg blinked, then got pissed off.

“ _You_ did this?! You can’t just chuck people into the road! What the hell are you thinking? You’re a doctor for fuck’s sake!”

“He was going to hurt my sub!” John hollered.

Sherlock stepped forward. “John.”

“Go inside, Sherlock!”

“No.”

John turned to him, riled and testy.

Sherlock touched his arm. “You go inside before you do something you’ll regret.”

Handcuffs jangled and Lestrade pulled one open.

“You are not taking me in!” John pointed at him.

“Keep acting like a psycho and I will! Did you shove him into traffic or not?”

“I damn well did!”

The door opened and Mrs. Hudson poked her head out. “What’s going on out here?” She demanded. Sherlock looked at her, his face pale with shock. John and Lestrade were shouting at each other, both angry and riled. People were crossing the street rather than walk past and sirens were blaring in the distance. Someone must have seen the accident and called the police.

“Hush you two!” Mrs. Hudson shouted. It was no use. They ignored her. She went back inside, yanking her gloves off as she did, muttering about ridiculous Defensive doms. She reappeared moments later bearing a frying pan and metal spoon. She bashed the spoon into the pan like a drum, _clang! Clang!_ yelling all the while. Lestrade and John startled and went quiet at the new noise.

“I’ll not have you brawling outside my building!” She shouted. “This isn’t a bleeding pub! You two are grown men for God’s sake.”

Both men stepped apart from each other. Lestrade stalked towards his car, pacing back and forth. Sherlock touched John’s shoulder and the dom turned to him. He stood very near to his sub as Sherlock rubbed his shoulder and spoke a litany of soothing things. He pushed the leash loop into John’s hand and the doctor clutched it.

A sleek black car pulled up on the opposite side of the road. Mycroft. Sherlock rolled his eyes, feeling helpless. Great. Just fucking great. He ignored that and kept calming John. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, but it seemed to be doing the trick.

“Who’s this?” Mrs. Hudson starting walking towards Seb, laying there like a slug.

“Sebastian.” Sherlock called.

She did a U-turn and ignored him.

An ambulance roared into view. Mycroft strolled across the street, unruffled as ever, and pulled Lestrade aside, speaking to him. Sherlock watched the paramedics check Seb’s vitals and load him up. John was facing the wall, still breathing hard. He was quieting under Sherlock’s hand and voice and the sub watched his brother. He spoke confidently to the Officer, who was nodding. Mycroft gestured to John and Sherlock and Greg sighed. He put his cuffs away. Sherlock wondered what he was telling him.

“Are you both alright?” Mrs. Hudson asked. She looked a sight armed with a pan and spoon, her hair flying every which way out of her kerchief.

“Yes.” Sherlock said.

Lestrade came up to them. “I’ll need statements.” He said stiffly.

“Not now.” Sherlock shook his head. Lestrade glanced at John. “Later. I’ll call.” He got into his car. The ambulance was gone and he merged into traffic, disappearing up the road. Whatever Mycroft had told him must have worked.

John took a deep shuddering breath and dropped the leash. He went back into the flat. Mrs. Hudson sighed and shook her head, following him inside. Sherlock bit his lip. He had no idea what was going through his doctor’s mind.

“I convinced him to not arrest John.” Mycroft said, tapping his umbrella on the pavement.

“Good.”

Mycroft eyed the leash and collar. “Go to him.” He said quietly.

Sherlock stared at him. He was grateful though he’d never say it. They exchanged a look and Sherlock went inside.

John was laying back on the bed. His feet were on the floor and his arms spread out peacefully, like he had just flopped there. Sherlock stood in the doorway, not knowing what sort of mood to expect. Would John be angry? Sad? Happy to see Seb hit by a car? Was, was more punishment in order?

“John?” He walked in. The dom sat up. “Are you okay?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes, I suppose. Sit.” He patted the spot beside him on the bed and Sherlock sat down. “Thanks for, you know, out there. I was pretty upset. You calmed me down.”

“Oh. You’re welcome.”

“Did he hurt you?”

“No. Not at all.”

“He was touching this.” John picked up the leash, feeling the soft leather in his hand.

“He just tugged it a bit.”

“He _pulled_ on you?!” He growled.

“John, it wasn’t hard. I’m fine.”

The doctor rubbed his hands through his hair.

“Sherlock, I need to ask you…what was he talking about with the texts?” He looked up, concerned and sad. “Has he been contacting you?”

Sherlock sighed and reached for his phone. Now that it was finally coming out into the open, he was relieved. He was also slightly terrified. He had no idea how John would react. The worst thing that could happen would be that John would leave him. If he suspected Sherlock was cheating, he could be gone with the wind.

“I, John, I swear, I’m not cheating on you.” He scrolled through his phone, getting to Seb’s texts.

“I didn’t think you were, love.”

Sherlock gave him the phone and John read the texts. He scrolled down, shaking his head back and forth.

“Jesus,” he growled. “He’s been sending them to you since we’ve been together!”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I…we had just started dating and I didn’t want you to think I was still with him and leave.”

John was quiet, scrolling and reading.

“Don’t leave, John.” He touched his dom’s shoulder.

His voice was so worried and broken that John turned to him and kissed him. He never wanted to hear his sub sound like that.

“I won’t leave.” He rested their foreheads together. “Alright? You would have to kick me out screaming.”

“Yes.” He nodded and then seemed much more relaxed.

“I wish you could have told me.” John said, scowling at the some of the more lewd messages.

“I know. I wanted to, but then so much time passed. He stopped sending them for a bit and I thought he was done, but then…”

“What?” John looked at him.

“I got post from him.” Sherlock stood and went around the bed. John watched him crouch and pull the white envelope out into the light. “Here.”

John put the phone down and took it. He opened it and looked at the collage. His jaw tightened. “Do you want to take this to the police?” He asked.

“I just want him gone.” Sherlock said.

“Between the texts and this thing,” He waved the collage, “there’s a restraining order we can get, I’m sure.”

Sherlock nodded. He looked down, suddenly ashamed.

John put the envelope down and rolled onto his stomach. They were eye level and John reached for his hands, grasping them.

“This will end, love.” He smiled. “Between me and your brother and Lestrade, we should be able to make him wish he’d never been born.”

“I think you already did.” Sherlock said dryly.

John laughed. “Yeah maybe.”

Sherlock mumbled something at the floor.

“What?” John said.

“Are you going to punish me?”

John blinked. “No. God, no. Why would I?”

“Because I didn’t tell you about this.” Sherlock gave him a nervous smile. “That was pretty rude of me.”

John shook his head and grinned grimly. “No. No love, come up here. Take your clothes off.” He tugged on Sherlock’s collar and his sub climbed up into the bed.

For an hour John licked and sucked and teased and nibbled and kissed every inch of Sherlock’s naked body. He knew how to nibble his nipples _just so_ to make him shudder, or how to suck on the spot just under his collar to made his cock twitch higher. John pressed little kisses over his face and fingers and he grinned at the wide dark circles that his sub’s pupils had become. John slipped two slick fingers into Sherlock’s bum and tickled his prostate, making him gasp and shiver and claw for more contact. When he couldn’t take anymore he lifted his legs and curled his toes and clutched John close, whining and reaching for his cock.

John leaned up, looking down at his sub. He was delighted at how pliant he had become and his inner dom swelled in pride. He had reduced this glorious, genius man to a mewling, spacing wreck. It felt pretty good. His erect cock jerked in agreement. His Defense was still simmering low and he grabbed the lube, slicking himself up with a growl.

John bent forward and slipped himself into his sub’s hot body. Sherlock threw his head back into the pillows, eyes closed, hooking his ankles together and lifting up to meet John’s thrusts. He clenched his teeth and dug his nails into John’s back in blissful joy as the doctor grunted and changed angles, ramming hard into him in a delicious way that Sherlock registered on some level would make his dom’s back sore the next day. His brain was too blown on happiness and sex to do anything about it and he smiled at each thrust. He dug his nails up and down John’s back in delight.

John grunted as Sherlock’s nails scraped over his skin. His lower back would pay for this tomorrow but the expression of pure golden joy on his sub’s face made him keep going. He smiled at Sherlock’s pleasure and felt a surge of love for his boy. They had a heating pad somewhere, his back would be fine.

He grunted and sped up, slamming with every thrust. Sherlock stopped dragging fingers over his back and instead simply held on, letting his dom do what he wanted. John rocked them back and forth, gasping and panting hard. The normally quiet bed squeaked in the frame. Sherlock buried in face in John’s shoulder and clung to his back. John was intense and focused above him, fucking him like he’d never been fucked.

“Ow.” Sherlock muttered on a particularly strong angle. That seemed to encourage his dom and Sherlock grinned. He allowed a couple more good hard thrusts. “John, ow, lube—need more.”

John growled and grabbed the bottle. He squeezed a ton onto his hand and jacked his cock and smeared his sub’s bottom. When he pushed back in it was smooth as butter.

“Oh, oh…” Sherlock lifted his arse up higher, arching his back. “God, John.” He clung again. He was sore for sure, but it was the best kind of sore. He had never been fucked like this before. They would both be having trouble walking tomorrow.

John suddenly blew a raspberry on his sweat-streaked chest and Sherlock laughed, loud and with abandon. John did it again and he giggled, then shouted out as the thrusts sped up and John straightened his arms, pistoning right into his prostate. He growled and groaned and came deep in his body. The hot gush and the pressure on his sensitive bits, plus John’s little gasping noises made Sherlock spill like a tidal wave, shuddering and panting.

They rode it out and slowed, John giving him a few more languid thrusts before he eased out and settled down on Sherlock’s semen and sweat-soaked belly. Their hard breaths filled the air and the whole room smelled of sweat and sex and musk.

Sherlock cradled John’s head on his chest, petting at his hair. “Amazing.”

“Good.”

“Your back…”

“Will be fine.”

“I scratched you.”

“I know.”

They lay there for a few more moments until Sherlock’s empty stomach howled for attention.

“I don’t think I’ll make it to the restaurant, love…” John mumbled. “I can barely be arsed to go to the kitchen.”

“Mm,” Sherlock adjusted his hands on John’s back and neck, rubbing his shoulder. “Same.”

“Just…give me a minute.” John’s voice was exhausted. “We’ll have toast’r s’mthing…”

“Sounds good.” Sherlock closed his eyes. “Just a few minutes of sleep first.”

“Mmm.”

They fell asleep like that, content in each other’s arms.

 


	24. The Third Victim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys recover from the Sebastian scare. Another victim is found in the serial killer case and this one is a little different.

 Sherlock woke up the next morning, warm and covered with blankets. The mattress beside him shifted. It sounded like a book was put down on the side table and the blanket was lifted off his legs. Warm familiar hands stroked down his thighs, spreading his legs. “More?” He muttered into the cotton.

“Just checking.” John said.

“You and your checking.”

“You love it.” John spread his cheeks and hummed. “You’re red.”

“I feel red.”

“Does it hurt?” John looked at his arse in a clinical way, searching for swelling or signs of bleeding. He seemed fine.

“Yes. Do you hurt?” Sherlock asked.

“Oh yeah.” John flopped back down beside him. “I was waiting for you so we could both shower the sweat and semen off.”

Well if that wasn’t love, what was?

Sherlock took a deep breath and sat up. “Ulgh.” He rubbed his head. “I think you realigned my spine last night.”

John chuckled and they both slowly stood up, wincing and groaning and grabbing furniture for support.

“I feel like an old man.” John grumbled. He hobbled towards the loo, one hand rubbing his lower back. Sherlock unbuckled the collar and left it on the side table before following his dom. John was in front of the mirror, slowly twisting from side to side to try and loosen up.

Sherlock turned the hot water on. He felt completely disgusting. He smelled like a cheap hooker and his belly was sticky. His arse was sore as hell from John’s rabid humping last night (not that he was complaining) and he was hungry. John didn’t look or smell much better.

They stepped under the warm spray and mutually groaned in pleasure. Sherlock grabbed the bar of soap and worked it into a pile of suds. He soaped John’s back, rubbing his shoulders and the tight spots between his scapulae and spine. His scratching fingers hadn’t left too much damage last night and only a few faint lines of pink marred the skin. John hummed happily and Sherlock skimmed over the rough scar tissue and smoothed his soapy hands up and down his warm ribs, feeling the bones under the warm skin. He slipped his hands down and rubbed them over John’s plump bottom. He snuck fingers into his crack and reached forward, fingering his balls from behind. John gasped and groaned again as he touched him. Sherlock smiled, glad he was enjoying himself. He lathered his armpits and reached around to grope his chest and John leaned his head back on Sherlock’s collarbone, relaxed and trusting that Sherlock would hold him up. His sub took the hint and continued to soap his belly and cock. John kissed his jaw and straightened up.

“Stand under the water.” Sherlock said, turning the temperature up a bit. He rubbed the soap over his own skin.

“No, I’ll wash you now.” John reached for the bar—

“No. Stand under the heat. It’ll be good for your back.”

John relented easily, enjoying the hot spray on his sore muscles.

They dried off and put dressing gowns on. Sherlock picked up his collar, feeling the soft leather and lining. The buckled was cool under his fingers and he glanced up at John, standing at the mirror in the wardrobe and scraping fingers through his wet hair in an attempt to get it to look decent. Sherlock went over to him and held it out. John turned around and smiled, taking it. Sherlock bent his head and John latched it on.

“You can put it on yourself if you want.” John murmured, fingering the D ring. “But I’m happy to do it too.”

“Yes, John.”

“I love you.” John kissed his forehead and Sherlock smiled.

“Love you too.”

They went out to the kitchen. Sherlock put bread in the toaster and John grabbed the jam and butter. They each bolted two pieces of toast and a mug of tea each before speaking.

“Breakfast?” John opened the fridge and pulled out eggs and sausages. Sherlock opened two tins of beans and breakfast was prepared in no time. They didn’t even bother with plates, instead each grabbing forks and standing at the hob and eating everything right out of the hot pan. John popped a few pain pills with the food.

A soft _knock-knock-knock_ on the door interrupted the meal. Sherlock opened it up, half a sausage speared on his fork. Mrs. Hudson was standing there with a big purple mug of hot tea.

“Hello, dear. I heard you were awake and I just wanted to bring this by for John.”

Sherlock looked surprised, but he stepped aside and she crept in, setting the mug down carefully.

“Hey, Mrs. H. What’s this?” John asked.

“It’s a special tea I used to make for my husband and second son. The blend is supposed to ease Defense. They always said good things about it.”

“Oh, thank you.” John was touched. “That’s so thoughtful of you.” He sipped the tea. It was a sort of spicy sweet flavor and he could taste hints of chamomile. After he swallowed, a pleasant mild floral taste lingered on his heated tongue. “Mm,” he took another sip. “That’s delicious.”

Sherlock tried it and made a face. “I don’t like it.”

“Sherlock.” John admonished softly.

“Oh no offense taken at all, dear. I don’t like the taste either!” She shrugged. “It must be a dom thing.” She glanced at Sherlock and made a squeaking sound of delighted joy. “He finally collared you!” She hugged Sherlock so hard that he stumbled into her. “Oh congratulations you two!” She gushed. John smiled and she sidled up to him, taking his arm. “Doesn’t he look _handsome_ in that collar.”

Sherlock’s smile lit the room.

“A beautiful collar for my beautiful partner.” John said, looking him in the eye. Sherlock blushed and looked away.

Mrs. Hudson made another happy noise. “Oh John,” She hugged him too, “you’re making him blush.”

“There’s not much that does that.” John mumbled into the cup.

“You should talk.” Sherlock said.

“Well, I’m pleased for you both.” She said. “And John, it was so good of you to finally show that _Sebastian_ a thing or two yesterday.”

John blinked a few times and made some noises that were almost but not quite words. He looked away, suddenly embarrassed by the way he had behaved yesterday. Had he really thrown a man into traffic? _Get a fucking grip, Watson._

“I’d have done the same.” She said. “It would aggravate my hip though.”

“Er, ah, thanks. Would you like breakfast?” John pointed at the empty pan.

“Oh no, thanks. Officer Lestrade dropped by this morning. He was asking about getting your statements.”

He made a face. “I’ll call him, thank you.” _Another person I acted like a nut in front of._

“You’re welcome dear.” She turned to leave.

“Thanks for the tea!” John called.

“It’s no bother!” She yelled back at him.

“You really don’t like this?” John asked, drinking more.

“No.” Sherlock made a face at the cup as if it had personally offended him. He turned away and wandered into the sitting room with his arms crossed. “It’s bitter and musky.”

John put the empty mug down. With the tea and hot shower and the food, he felt much better.

“Come to the Yard with me.” John picked up his phone to text Greg. “We’ll give statements.”

Sherlock made a sort of noncommittal noise.

 

  _Hey Greg, is now a good time to come by? —JW_

 Greg texted back instantly.

_Can you both come by in 2 hours? I’m swamped. —GL_

_Sure —JW_

 

 "He wants to see us in a couple hours.” John said.

“Fine, fine.” Sherlock rubbed his head and stared out the window, fidgeting and tapping his toes.

“Bored?” John asked.

“No.” He looked at his violin case, debating, then let out a long sigh and sank to his knees.

John walked over to him and touched his head and Sherlock rested his face on John’s hip.

“John, I…” Sherlock leaned back and bit his top lip. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Seb.”

“Love, it’s fine. C’mon, we talked about this.”

“I should have told you. I didn’t trust you enough.”

John took a deep breath. “Come here.” He sat on the sofa and Sherlock scuttled over and knelt on the floor beside him. John had meant for him to sit on the sofa, but if he wanted to kneel that was fine. “I’m not upset with you. You know that, right?”

“Yes, though I don’t know why.”

“Because Seb is an idiot. Look, I’ve been in a lot of, well, a few relationships, and I know how messy things can get. You said yourself we had just started dating when he began to text you and you didn’t want me to leave. Hell, I wouldn’t have told me either if I was in your position.”

“Would you have left?” Sherlock asked.

“No.” _I want to live with you forever._

Sherlock buried his face in John’s knee and the doctor stroked his damp hair. “What do you need me to do?” John asked.

Sherlock shrugged. He was silent for a good ten minutes and John let him work through it,simply stroking his neck and shoulders. Eventually he spoke. “Punish me, John. I should have told you. Give me the paddle again.”

John thought for a moment. The paddle wasn’t happening, that was certain. In fact, he wasn’t in the mood for any kind of hitting or impact scene and didn’t think Sherlock deserved it. He was still mellow from the sex and his back was sore. The less he could swing his arms, the better. He smiled to himself and thought of the perfect penance for his sub.

“Fine. I’ll give you a way to atone for this since you need it but not because I think you need it.”

A nod.

“You have to agree to do exactly what I say.”

“Yes, John.”

“No complaints or whining.”

“Yes, yes.” He took a deep breath and John smiled.

“Okay, up.”

They both stood (John groaning) and went to the bedroom. “Make the bed.” John nodded at the rumpled sheets. “It doesn’t need to be perfect.” Sherlock arranged the pillows and threw the blankets up into some semblance of straightened order.

“Take your gown off.” John commanded.

Sherlock did, tossing it over the footboard. He was naked except for his collar.

“Go to my box.” John said. He knew if he got on the floor himself, his muscles would seize and he’d never make it back up. Sherlock pulled out the wooden box and opened it up.

“Get the massage oil. Yellow glass bottle. It’s small.” John said. Sherlock rooted past the paddle and some cuffs and pulled out a little bottle of oil. “Yes, perfect, come to me now and kneel so I can tell you your punishment.”

He closed the box and stood, tiptoeing over to him and handing over the bottle. He dropped to his knees and looked up at his dom.

“Your punishment, Sherlock, is to give me a back massage. After that, I’ll put you in bondage and you will remain in bondage until I decide to release you. Understand?”

Sherlock opened his mouth, he closed his mouth. “I, suppose. A massage?”

“Yes. Also, today, you are also going to bring me a cup of tea, the way I like it, whenever I ask. No matter what we’re doing or where we are.”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock said. This wasn’t what he expected at all.

“Good. Take my gown off.”

He was happy to do _that_. Sherlock bounced up and untied the belt at John’s waist. He slid the gown off his shoulders and down his arms and tossed it by his own on the bed. John gave him the bottle and lay face down on the bed and Sherlock admired his dom’s body. His shoulders and back were strong and his bottom was enticingly plump. He had some softness around his belly and thighs and Sherlock licked his lips.

“Anytime now.” John grinned at him and Sherlock got on the bed. He straddled John’s thighs, then decided he was too low. He moved up, sitting right on John’s warm bum. Oh yes, this was perfect. His cock jerked and he looked down, contemplating for the first time what it would be like to penetrate his dominant. He tilted his head in thought. Would _he_ like that? Would John like that? He didn’t know. His cock jumped again. _It_ certainly liked the idea. He opened the oil and dribbled some into his hands. A refreshing, masculine cedar and mint scent, sweetened with a tinge of almond filled his nose and he placed both hands on the small of John’s back before sweeping them firmly up either side of his spine.

“Oh fuck…” John wailed into the pillow. Sherlock rubbed his trapezius muscles and then swept his hands back down, repeating the motion. He found the tiny rhomboids with his thumbs and worked those open. “We’re doing this more often.” John declared. “You’ve been holding this back.”

Sherlock grinned. “I know a little bit about massage.”

“And you haven’t said anything until now? I should punish your butt for _that_.” There was no heat behind his words. He sounded blissed out on the pleasure of the massage. Sherlock smiled and John continued. “First the school kink and now you know massage?”

“I’m full of surprises.” Sherlock said. “There’s not much to massage, really. It’s mostly anatomy and memorizing steps.”

“Never ever delete those steps—Ow!”

“Oh, your obliques and latissimus dorsi are sore.”

“Fix it!” John wailed.

Sherlock focused his attention on these muscles, rubbing and pressing and kneading and tapping and stimulating the area as much as possible to get the blood moving. After twenty minutes of this, he shifted back off John’s arse and straddled his knees. He oiled his hands again and mashed them into John’s cheeks, rubbing at the glutes.

“Oh, that feels…not bad at all.”

Sherlock grinned, feeling naughty and submissive, and patted the skin hard enough to make his bum wobble. He smiled and smacked him a little bit, enjoying himself.

“Is my submissive spanking me!?” John asked in mock outrage.

“Maybe.” Sherlock gave him a _pop!_ on each cheek and then rubbed hard to get deep at the muscles. His actions weren’t entirely altruistic. Sure he was glad to take the pain away but he was having a great time grabbing John’s butt. He lifted his doms cheeks and saw the hint of hole. He licked his lips as excitement started to pool in his hips. It would be so easy to just slip in. He was inches away. He edged his fingers into John’s crack. The dom didn’t move. He trailed his index finger lightly over John’s hole.

“If you wanna finger me, go to town.” John mumbled. Sherlock pressed his oiled index finger inside. It was odd to do it in another person. His own bum was one thing but this was…different. He pumped the finger in and out.

“I’ma fall into subspace if you keep that up.” He murmured.

Sherlock pulled out. “Do you need to submit?”

“No, just…you know. The stimulation.”

“John, if I suggested anally penetrating you, would you consent?”

John lifted his head and looked at him. “Would I let you fuck me?”

A nod.

John grabbed for his phone on the side table. “We don’t have time.” He muttered at the screen.

Sherlock blinked. “Now? I didn’t expect you to be so interested. Or interested at all.”

John started to sit up and Sherlock got off of him. “I’m willing.” He said. “You know how good it feels. If you like penetration, then sure. Who says subs can’t ‘pitch,’ as it were?”

Sherlock didn’t tell him he didn’t know if he liked it or not, seeing as he’d never fucked a man before.

“Later.” He said.

“Definitely.” John stretched his arms overhead, groaning in pleasure. “That was fantastic.” He stood up and rolled his shoulders. “I feel looser. Thank you so much, love.” John pulled him up into a kiss. “I look forward to that ‘later.’”

“Me too.”

“Good. Now, make me some tea.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and grabbed his gown—

“—No. Hand that to me.”

Sherlock did, hiding smile, then went out to the kitchen naked to boil water. John padded after him, dressed in his own gown, watching with a smile as his sub got a mug and a bag, then poured the water and added sugar and milk.

Sherlock gave him the cup. John sipped and hummed in pleasure.

“Good boy.” John kissed him and patted his backside. “Go stand in the corner for a bit. Your punishment isn’t over yet.”

Sherlock had forgotten this was supposed to be a ‘punishment.’ He obeyed and went to face the corner behind the red chair. John sauntered into the room and sat at his laptop. He had an eye on the time. They still had a little bit before they had to leave.

Sherlock found peace in the corner, and his brain was delighted with the idea of fucking John. He would let him! He would be allowed. How could he do it? Fast, hard? What would John like? Would he like it slow or fast? Gentle or rough? Goodness. So many decisions.

The printer crunched and warbled loudly, breaking his thoughts. A few pages spat out. He listened to John get up and take the pages. Sherlock looked over his shoulder, watching John press some buttons. Nothing happened.

“That thing is half in the grave.” Sherlock told him.

John hummed and the machine suddenly beeped and cranked out a piece of paper that got jammed into the rollers. John tugged it free, only managing to rip off a small part of the corner.

“What are you printing?”

“Stuff for work. Hush now, you’re still in corner time.”

Sherlock swung his head back around.

John stood up fifteen minutes later and closed his computer with a sigh. “Alright. I’ll put you in bondage and then we can go.”

“Bondage?” Sherlock looked at him, scooting out of the corner. “But…”

“Yes?” John grinned.

“I’ll be, my clothes?”

“Come on.” John brought him to the bedroom and opened his box. Sherlock watched dubiously as his dom pulled a bundle of thin silky black ropes up into the light. He came over to his sub, unraveling the bundle, and crouched before him. He was eye level with his cock and appeared to be contemplating. John shook out the rope and wrapped it around his hips.

“Legs apart.” He said. Sherlock stepped his feet apart and John pulled the ends of the rope down between his legs and up around either side of his bum, creating a sort of jock strap kind of thing. He wrapped the cord around his testicles and did some kind of complicated series of knots all along his shaft. Sherlock gulped and rested his hands on John’s head.

“Hands behind you.” John told him.

Sherlock clasped his fingers at the small of his back, panting as his cock twitched and started to lift.

“No, no.” John pinched the sensitive skin inside his thigh and Sherlock squeaked. The sudden sharp, unpleasant pain washed away the arousal and John tied his flaccid cock down. “There.” John tied it off. “Walk around, see it if chafes.”

Sherlock looked down at his cock, running fingers over the knot work. He couldn’t stop staring. The dark rope looked fantastic against his pink cock and he walked around the bedroom, feeling the soft rope around his hips. He could just barely feel it on his back and belly and he smiled. He crouched. It pulled at bit on his bum but it was fine. He stood up and touched his front again. “It’s good.” He said.

“Excellent. Get dressed.” John kissed him. “We have to go.”

“Okay.” Sherlock tore his gaze away from his own body. “I’m bringing my phone. And the collage.” Sherlock said boldly. “I want to get a restraining order.”

John nodded. It was encouraging that he wanted to. Seb had been in his life for so long. John wasn’t sure how willing he’d be to sever that contact.

“Besides,” Sherlock’s face lit up, “there could be movement on the case!”

 

* * *

 

John knocked on Greg’s office door. He was at his desk surrounded by a tiny mountain range of papers and folders and a paper cup of coffee. A phone was tucked against his ear and he beckoned them both inside. John had Sherlock’s leash looped around his wrist and they each sat in the visitor’s chairs, waiting patiently for Greg to finish his call. Sherlock’s knee bounced up and down.

Eventually he hung up the phone and regarded John with a less than impressed expression. He looked at Sherlock, rather, at his collar and the leash attached to it.

“Congratulations.” He nodded at the new accessory.

“Thank you.” Sherlock touched the leather and John looked at him adoringly.

“So John, do you want to explain to me why you threw a man into my car yesterday?”

John sighed. “He was threatening Sherlock. What was I supposed to do?”

“Not that. You should be in jail right now, do you realize that?”

Sherlock looked up with a barely suppressed snarl.

Lestrade sighed. “Do you two want anything to drink?”

“Tea would be nice.” John looked at Sherlock. He stood up and unclipped the leash from his collar. John rolled it up and put it in his pocket. “Greg?” He asked.

“Oh. Uh, sure.”

Sherlock left and was back in moments balancing three cups. He set them down and closed the door.

Lestrade regarded the cups with surprise, like he couldn’t believe Sherlock had actually done it.

“Thanks, love.” John said.

“Thank you.” Lestrade sipped and pulled out his notebook and started jotting notes. “Tell me everything that happened yesterday regarding Sebastian.”

So Sherlock began by saying how Seb had come up to him on the pavement and spoke to him and tugged the leash. John listened, trying not to get too upset. Then he gave his side.

“So you admit that you threw Sebastian into my car because of your Defense?”

“Yes.” John said. He bit his lip. “I just went into it right when I saw him. I saw the look on Sherlock’s face. Seb was holding his leash.” John shrugged. “I went nuts.”

“No suppressants?” Greg asked.

“I didn’t take one before I went down the stairs, no. I wasn’t expecting to see my sub’s stalker outside.”

“Stalker?” Greg asked.

Sherlock jumped in, telling him about the texts. He pulled the collage out of his coat and showed him. Greg opened the envelope and looked blankly at the pictures.

“Well that changes things a little bit.” Greg said, slipping the page back in the envelope. “Sherlock was being antagonized by this bastard.” He looked at the sub, then at John. “John, could you step outside for a moment?”

Both men stared at the officer.

“Why?” Sherlock asked.

“Because I want to talk to you.”

Lestrade and Sherlock stared at each other and John got up. “Need the loo.” He said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and his dom left, closing the door behind. “What?” Sherlock asked. “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s probably wrong.” He shifted in his chair and the ropes rubbed up against his hip. He hid a grin.

“Look,” Lestrade picked up a pen and tapped it a few times on the desk. He threw it down and stood up to pace. Sherlock watched, amused. “I may be way off here,” Lestrade said.

“You often are.”

“Is his Defense usually like that?”

Sherlock thought of John slamming Coel up against the wall. Seb flying into traffic was an image he wasn’t likely to forget anytime soon.

“I’d say so.” He said.

“It’s just, that’s a very strong reaction to not a lot of stimuli.”

“Did you just refer to me as ‘stimuli’?”

“No! I mean,” Lestrade stopped pacing and looked at him. “A lot of doms, when they go into Defense, just get antagonized or irritated. They don’t, you know, throw people into traffic.”

“John is not ‘a lot’ of doms. Are you coming up to the point of this conversation or shall I guess?”

“Does he get out of control? Does he hurt you? Throw things? Break things?”

Sherlock looked the officer in the eye. “No.”

Lestrade stared at him. “Okay.” He sat down. “Good. It’s just—”

“Lestrade.” Sherlock said. “John does not abuse me. Do you really think I would have taken his collar if he did? Would I have asked him to move in? Would I take him to a crime scene?” There wasn’t anything malicious or accusing in Sherlock’s tone. He was just trying to get Lestrade to believe him. “Seb was never comfortable with me being an unofficial colleague of Scotland Yard.”

“Really?”

“He was an abusive sod who knew I had regular access to police. He was jealous and an idiot. Did I ever take Seb to crime scenes?”

“Never once.”

Sherlock nodded. “John does not hurt me.” He grinned. “Unless I ask very, _very_ nicely.”

“Okay, okay.” Greg held up his hand. “You can stop there.”

_Tap, tap-tap_ on the door. “Can I come in?” John asked from the other side.

“Yes.” Sherlock called. The door opened and John glanced at both of them, his gaze lingering with Sherlock’s, before sitting at his tea again. It had cooled significantly and he sipped it fast while it was still warm. Greg looked at him, sitting with his ankles crossed, gulping from the paper cup and aiming heart eyes at Sherlock, like being away from him for even five minutes had been an eternity. Good Lord they were in love. _Sherlock Holmes_ was in love. Greg was happy for him. For both of them.

“We can definitely get you a restraining order.” Greg dismissed all thoughts of Sherlock potentially being abused and leaned back and scratched his head. “The good news is that he’s not pressing charges.”

“Really?” John said. “Am I off the hook?”

“Legally, yeah.”

“What about your car?” John asked carefully.

“Bonnet and fender are dented. The windscreen survived intact and undamaged though.”

John grimaced and Greg continued. “I was taking it home from the mechanic when it happened.”

John grimaced again, mildly ashamed. He didn’t regret what he did, but it was unfortunate that he was inconveniencing Greg.

“I’ll pay for the repairs.” John said.

“Thank you.” Greg said.

“That’s unlike Seb.” Sherlock mused. “He has a chance to make my life miserable and he’s not taking it? Hm.” He frowned.

Greg shrugged. “You can ask him yourself if you want. He’s in Mercy hospital.”

John looked up and Greg suddenly wondered if John wasn’t done with him. “He’s not under guard,” Greg said to him meaningfully, “and I hope it can stay that way.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake, John isn’t going to do anything and I don’t want to see him. I’m done with him. Forever.”

John picked up his hand and kissed the back of it.

Just then, Greg’s phone started ringing. He picked it up, muttering a gruff, “Lestrade,” into the receiver. “Yes…yes….really?” He jotted notes and Sherlock craned his neck to try and see over the mess.

“Yes.” Greg was smiling. “Excellent. Asleep? Ah…”

Sherlock eyes narrowed.

“Okay, thanks.”

“What?” Sherlock asked the moment he hung up.

“There’s a third victim in the serial case.”

“Yes, yes, and? What was found this time? You said ‘excellent’.”

“This one is alive.”

“Alive?” John repeated.

“Let’s go talk to him.” Sherlock stood up. “Where is he?”

“He’s asleep. In hospital.” Greg said. Sherlock frowned and sat down. “He lost a lot of blood and the doctors are keeping him sedated.”

“For how long?”

“They’ll call us when he wakes up.”

 

* * *

 

Michael Jenkins woke up two days later on a rainy morning. Sherlock and John were at the hospital, outside his door with Lestrade while Jenkins’ doctor ran some tests. John and Lestrade were waiting quietly with large cups of coffee. Sherlock was pacing like a captive wildebeest doped up on adrenaline.

“Will you sit down?” John told him.

“No—no I won’t sit down. Jenkins can give us answers.” He stopped pacing and clenched his fists. “This case is driving me mad—I want _answers_!”

The doctor stepped out of the room.

“You can go in now, gentlemen. He’s still shaken, so—”

—Sherlock pushed past him.

“Sorry.” John said. “He’s been waiting for this for a while.”

“Ah. A friend?”

“No. He’s trying to find the murderer.”

The doctor blinked and John patted him on the shoulder before following his sub into the hospital room.

“Who tried to kill you?” Sherlock demanded from the foot of Jenkins’ bed.

The young man’s skin was sallow from him having been cooped up for days in a hospital bed and his face had a sunken, pinched look of bad health. He stared up at Sherlock, surprised, and took a shaky breath. “Um…I don’t know?”

“What did he look like? Tall? Short? Hair color? Eye color? Speak quickly!”

“Are you with the police?” Jenkins asked.

“Sherlock.” John grunted. “Ease up.”

At that moment, a petite dark skinned girl with long braided hair stepped came out of the room’s loo. She growled at the sight of the three of them, nearly bristling, and Jenkins grabbed her arm from the bed. “Blair, no—” he pleaded, “they’re police, I think…”

“I’m Detective Inspector Lestrade,” Greg showed his ID and Blair glanced down at it, still tense and keyed up. John stepped in front of Sherlock, guarding his sub from the other dom and Blair zeroed in on him. She was a good four inches shorter than John, but looks could be deceiving—especially in Defensive dominants. She put her hands on her hips and tilted her head to the side. John stepped his legs apart and crossed his arms, staring right back down at her.

“Oh for God’s sake!” Sherlock snapped, pushing between the two. “My name is Sherlock Holmes and this is my dom, John Watson.”

Recognition lit Jenkins’ face. “Oh yeah! I read the blog.”

Sherlock continued, “we’re here with the Inspector trying to find the person responsible for killing those subs.” He turned to Blair, “you’re clearly his dominant.”

“Yes.” Her voice was a low growl.

“In Defense.” John said.

“They gave me something for it.” She told them.

“Obviously.” Sherlock said, “otherwise you would not be allowed in this building.”

“We need to ask a few questions if you’re up for it, Michael.” Greg told him in a softer tone.

“Can Blair stay?”

“Of course.”

Blair sat down in the visitor’s chair beside the bed, clasping her hand in Jenkins’. The others wisely sat on the opposite side of the room, the three of them stuffed on the little visitor’s sofa.

“Do you need anything?” She asked her sub softly.

“No, I’m fine.” He grinned up at her and John softened, aware then of Sherlock’s hand on his thigh, the weight of it warm and soothing.

“Now who tried to kill you?” Sherlock asked.

“Huh. You know, you’re not as tall as I’d thought….” Jenkins mused, looking at him. Sherlock grit his teeth and Lestrade jumped in.

“Michael, can you tell us about the night you were attacked?”

“I don’t remember a lot of it. I was coming home from work, walking towards the Knightsbridge Tube stop….someone must have attacked me from behind. I don’t know, it gets fuzzy around then. I woke up later. It was dark. I was inside, like in a cabin or hut of some kind. There was a fireplace and a table and chairs. There might have been a deer skin rug but I could have just hallucinated that. There was a lot of blood around me on a tarp—most of it mine. It smelled like wood.”

Blair squeezed his hand.

“Wood?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah, like a sweet wood smell and maybe, like old standing water? Onions and garlic too, just a little bit.”

Sherlock looked mildly impressed. “Go on.”

“So I wake up and there’s a guy in this place with me.” He swallowed. “He had a black mask on, so I didn’t see his face. He had knives. I was tied down.” He added quietly. “There was a lot of blood. He looked over at me and came to me with a knife.”

“Did he say anything to you?” Lestrade asked.

“He was talking to himself. Talking about someone named Anthony.”

“Anthony…” John looked at Sherlock.

“He also,” Jenkins gulped, “he was also saying how he was going to save me, how by killing me it would save my dom trouble.” He glanced up at Blair and the dom was looking down on him tenderly. Jenkins continued. “I asked him what he meant, and he told me to be quiet and just accept what he was doing, and that it wouldn’t hurt much and would be over soon.”

Everyone was silent for a moment. Shoes squeaked by in the hall.

“He also was saying how I wasn’t supposed to wake up. How next time he needed a stronger dose. ‘I don’t have the big one.’ He said that too. I don’t know what he was talking about. He was wearing these weird trousers.” Michael made a face. “They were plaid and bizarre—like the Norwegian Olympic curling team, kind of. But not colored.” He rubbed his face, careful of his hand. “I may have made that up too. I lost a lot of blood.”

Sherlock pulled out his phone and John watched him Google the team. “Like this?” Sherlock held out the phone and the image of the curling team in loud red and blue trousers.

“Yeah. But black and white. The guy thought someone was outside. He was really skittish, looking out the curtains. He heard something in the garden, like a banging sound and he took off out the front door. I managed to get hold of one of the knives. I cut the rope he tied me with and left through the open front door.” He laughed humorlessly. “The door was just open.” He swallowed and Blair handed him a foam cup of water. “Thanks.” He sipped. “I was feeling pretty light headed and I thought he might come find me, you know? I walked a long time, I think. I don’t really know how long. The moon was out so I could see. I just remember walking along the dirt road. Slowly. I don’t know how I managed to get up and walk, even. I was so out of it.”

“Do you have any idea how you got here?” Sherlock asked.

“No.” He glanced around the hospital room, then up at his dom. “I was walking, now I’m here.”

“Michael,” Lestrade began, “a cab picked you up outside Ferndale, does that sound familiar?”

“No.”

“Have you ever been to The Broads?” Sherlock asked.

“No.”

“What’s your blood type?”

“Uh, O I think.”

“If you saw a picture of your killer, would be able to identify him?” Sherlock pressed.

“I doubt it.” Michael said. “He had the mask, but maybe I’d get lucky.”

“Hmm….” Sherlock walked out of the room and John watched him go. Greg was talking to Jenkins and the dom in a quiet voice, giving him contact information. John looked over the kid’s mop of dark hair and his pale face. It could so easily be Sherlock in that bed. John licked his lips. The sooner this damned case was done, the better.

“Thank you, Michael.” John said. “You’ve been helpful.”

“You’re welcome.” He said. John exited the room.

Sherlock wasn’t in the hall. John hadn’t really expected him to be.

 


	25. A Conductor of Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More of the case comes together.

 “Molly.” Sherlock banged into the lab and she startled.

“Sherlock! Hello. You’re probably here for Jenkins’ tox screen, yes? Let me grab it.”

He appreciated the lack of small talk and he read over the pages she handed him.

“Samples were taken as soon as he was brought in,” she said, “but at that point things might have metabolized.”

“Flunitrazepam.” He noted, looking at the sheet. “Two milligrams.”

“Yep. It was in his hair and urine samples.”

“The murder realized that fifteen milligrams was too high. But evidently two milligrams wasn’t enough to keep Jenkins sedated long enough to kill him. He wasn’t supposed to wake up.”

“Two milligrams should be plenty to keep someone sedated.” Molly said.

“Hyperthyroid.” Sherlock said. “I saw it written at the top of his chart. Jenkins metabolized the drug quickly. That likely saved his life.”

“God.” Molly frowned at the page. “Does he remember anything?” She asked.

“Some. Though the amnesiac effects of the drug worked well. The killer’s getting smarter.” Sherlock said. “What about the blood?”

“Ah.” She went to her computer and Sherlock followed. He leaned over her shoulder to look at the screen. “Jenkins is Type O and that’s mostly what we found on him. There was, though, a little bit of AB as well.”

“Could be the killer’s blood.” Sherlock mused, standing up. “Could be the blood of a previous victim. Dixon was Type AB. If the murderer is bringing his victims to the same place in The Broads—which seems likely given that the soil on Owen Allsopp’s remains matched the soil type found there…Molly, how many people have Type AB blood?”

“Oh loads.” She said. “Three percent of the sixty-one million UK residents have it.”

“That’s almost two million people.” Sherlock muttered. There was no way Michael could pick out the correct face from a pool so massive. Two hundred, maybe. Two hundred thousand? No way. “It was worth a shot.” He muttered.

He left the lab and his phone chimed. John.

_Where are you? —JW_

_Going back to the flat. —SH_

_I have work soon. I might not see you. Text me when you get home if I’m not there. —JW_

 Sherlock caught a cab back to B. Normally he’d take the Tube but he wanted to get there faster and see John off. His doctor was coming down the steps with his bag when he entered and they met with a kiss.

“I gotta go.” John said. “Did you find out what you needed?”

“Somewhat.” Sherlock grumped.

“I’ll be home at five.”

They kissed again, quickly, and John left. “Be good! Love you!”

“Love you too.” Sherlock waved and the door slammed. He headed up the steps and tossed his coat off. Despite all the information Jenkins had given, he didn’t think much progress had been made at all. He made a cup of tea and lay down on the sofa, reclining into his ‘thinking pose’ and visiting his palace. An hour later, he stood and typed up notes, hitting ‘print’ so he could put them up on the wall above the sofa.

Dixon’s limbs had been found, badly hacked. No traces of any kind of toxin were found and his dom, Alicia, had been distraught. Owen Allsopp had a couple of wealthy dominants who liked to spoil him. Soil from The Broads was found in his pockets, suggesting that the killer may have dumped the body in the river. The murderer had used way too much Flunitrazepam on Owen, so much so that it may have killed him. Vincent Coel, Owen’s dominant, hadn’t been too upset by his sub’s death. He was also a horny bastard. Jenkins remembered the strange clothes, the garlic and onion scents. He’d been found wandering along the side of the road in Ferndale. Searches of the area hadn’t yielded anything since Jenkins didn’t know where he’d escaped from. He’d lost a great deal of blood and had been nearly hacked to bits, given all the bandages on his body in hospital. His fast metabolism likely saved him.

No fingerprints. Gloves and corpse decay were working in the murderer’s favor. The tox screen showed the wild dosages of drug, but no other foul play. If the murderer just needed his victims pliant and willing, Flunitrazepam would do the trick. It was relatively easy to get as well. They still had no description to go on. Jenkins hadn’t seen the killer’s face but had said ‘he’. Likely a dominant, easily able to overpower subs or seduce a sub. Maybe. Not a medical man, given the haphazard sawing at the bones. Not terribly intelligent either, given his miscalculation of the dosages. That there was a unintelligent murderer out there, succeeding, was maddening and also more insulting than Sherlock cared to admit.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Jenkins’ observations were unreliable since he’d been drugged. All these things could have been hallucinated. He growled and rolled off the sofa, stomping into the kitchen. He needed the case to digest in his palace for a bit. He wanted to focus on something else, something that was anything else. His microscope held no appeal so he pulled out his violin. He’d played all of one song, sawing badly at the strings, before throwing it aside in annoyance. That wasn’t working either. Reading? Boring. Telly? God no. Journal entry? There was no new data to add. He wanted to bother John but he was at work for…Sherlock looked at his phone. Another hour. He made a face and threw the phone on the table. He stormed into the kitchen and made himself some toast. It tasted like dust in his mouth. Groaning, he flopped to the sitting room floor in a tangled heap. This stupid case was annoying. John wasn’t here and that was annoying. He could hear the telly next door and that was annoying too. He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. Some bullet holes would look nice up there. He couldn’t be arsed to get up and get the gun though, so he lay there in a tragic fit of sulky ennui.

An hour must have passed because he heard familiar steps banging up the stairs. The door opened. He didn’t move. John set his bag and down and wandered over, looking down at him from above.

“You okay?” He asked.

“John!” Sherlock rolled onto his belly and grabbed one of his ankles. “I’m so bored!” He wailed into the floor.

“Hey—” John stepped his other foot back, surprised at Sherlock’s outburst. “Can you let go?” He asked.

“No.”

“Sherlock.”

Grudgingly, he let his hands fall to the carpet. John stepped away and went to the kitchen to wash his hands. “Is spaghetti and meat sauce okay for dinner?”

Sherlock muttered into the floor.

“What? Lift your head.”

John’s words were edged with frustration. Must have been a tedious shift.

“I don’t care.” He said.

“Fine. Help me cook. Mike and Betsy are coming over.”

“Tonight?!” Sherlock blurted.

“Yes. I told you.”

“No you didn’t!”

Ulgh! Company? Eating and chatting and…sitting? Sherlock whined into the floor and banged the ball of his foot against the rug. His mood darkened at the prospect of sudden social interaction.

“Oh. I thought I did. I meant to.”

“I have case stuff!” Sherlock yelled.

“Fine, fine. Eat with us, then work on your case.”

_Kick, kick._

“I won’t ask you again to get up. Will you please tidy the place up a bit?”

_Cleaning?!_ It kept getting worse. Sherlock settled on moaning into the floor.

“Sherlock.” John snapped. “Why are you on the floor?”

“Because.”

“Get up.”

“Don’t want to get up.”

John made fists and regarded his whiny submissive who was currently throwing the Sherlock version of a temper tantrum. “Sherlock.”

“Why do you care if I’m on the floor!? So what?” His tone was bitchy and he curled into the fetal position, grumbling to himself.

“What was that?” John said in a stern voice. “I’m sorry if you’re not feeling well, or whatever the hell is wrong, but you do not talk to me that way.”

Sherlock stayed quiet.

“Tell me what’s wrong, love.” John said, his voice softer.

“Why?”

“Because you haven’t been like this in a while and I’m concerned.”

_He doesn’t even like the case. I’m not going to complain about it if he doesn’t even want me on it in the first place_. “It’s fine John. It’s nothing.” His tone still left a lot to be desired.

Footsteps sounded and then John was looming over him.

“I’m going to have a shower.” He said, his voice steely. “When I get out, I expect you to be off the floor. You will organize your things so this flat is presentable and that poor tone had better be gone, understood?”

“Fine.” Sherlock grumped.

John stormed down the corridor and moments later the shower was running. Who was _John_ to tell him when he could and couldn’t lay on the floor? What did he care? Sherlock dragged himself into the green chair. There. He was upright. More than he had been anyway.

The shower stopped. There was movement in the bedroom and John emerged, damp haired and dressed in fresh clothes. Sherlock eyed his worn jeans and white undershirt. The scent of shampoo and his natural dominant musk preceded him and Sherlock breathed deep.

He boiled water and Sherlock watched in silence as he poured it over a tea bag and added sugar. He drank it and closed his eyes in enjoyment.

“This room doesn’t look much tidier.” John strode into the room, cup in hand, glancing around at the piled notebooks and papers. Sherlock looked at his damp grey blond hair and the thin Tshirt on his chest. The jeans were low on his hips and a little bit too big. The denim outlined his thighs nicely and Sherlock stared at the bulge between his legs.

“Because I didn’t tidy it.” Sherlock lolled back in his chair, his legs falling open.

John sipped his tea and looked at his sub, getting his ‘dom face’ on. He wanted to be a stroppy, whiny submissive? Fine. As far as John was concerned, he was in need of a firm hand and some correction. Nothing unduly harsh, of course. John put the mug down.

“Get up.” He commanded. He pulled the armless desk chair towards the fireplace and set it down between both armchairs. Sherlock slouched forward and stood up, regarding the chair with a bored expression. John propped his slippered foot up on the rung in the legs, making his left thigh parallel to the floor. He grabbed Sherlock’s arm and bent him over his upraised leg.

“Wha—John!”

The doctor popped his hand across his arse. “You are acting like a brat.”

Sherlock said nothing. John looked down at the back of his dark head and Sherlock grabbed his dom’s ankle. The position was awkward for him but gave John good access and a strong swing. If his sub wasn’t so tall he could keep his legs straight, but as it was he was balanced with his head down and his bum up.

“I don’t know what’s gotten in to you, but it stops now. Unless you have a legitimate reason to be acting this way, I won’t tolerate it another second.”

_Smack!_

John paused, waiting for any kind of plea or arguing but Sherlock was holding perfectly still and accepting. Nodding to himself, John popped his hand across his butt a few more times, then he grabbed the dressing gown and tossed it up over his back. Sherlock squirmed when John tugged his trousers down with one hand, baring him. John didn’t think anything else needed to be said. Instead, he let his hand explain the situation.

He swatted each warm cheek over and over. His other hand was braced firmly on his sub’s hip, holding him steady and in place. Sherlock could feel the reassuring grip of his hand and he squeezed John’s ankle. He closed his eyes peacefully as the spanks popped through the air above him. He focused on the feel of John’s warm leg braced under his hips and the mildly humiliating oddity of his gown tossed unceremoniously over his back. The backs of his knees were cool and exposed but his backside was warming up fast. It wasn’t a particularly hard spanking and John was swatting him with all the rhythm of a metronome. He appreciated this, as it allowed him to sink towards the edges of subspace and just float there. It was silencing and calming and Sherlock took a deep breath.

The pain was building and sticking and he crossed his ankles, squeezing his dom’s leg. To his delight, John eased up though he still continued to whack him and Sherlock slipped further towards subspace. He couldn’t even remember why John was spanking him. It didn’t matter anymore. He was over his dom’s knee because he wanted him there and all he had to do was submit. Everything faded away: Jenkins, Sebastian, the blood test and tox screen, the upcoming dinner with Mike and Betsy…it all crumpled away like paper curling up in a fire and he licked his lips, taking long deep breaths. The sting on his bum faded and he was aware of John’s palm rubbing the burn away.

“If you want to keep going, we’re going to have to switch sides. My hand is killing me.” His voice was soothing and Sherlock shook his head. John tipped him up, holding him steady as the blood rushed back into place. Sherlock saw spots and buried his face in John’s shoulder.

“Sh…” John hugged him close and rubbed his back. “Good boy.”

“This case is maddening.” Sherlock groused.

“I know. It’ll come together. It always does.”

Sherlock hummed into his shoulder and lifted his face out, staring at John. The tension had drained out of his shoulders and the thunderous look was gone from his eyes.

“I’ll help you cook,” he said, “then I’m working on the case in here.”

“Have the meal with us, help me cook it, then you can work on the case.” John countered. “You can even close the pocket doors so we don’t bother you.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John, thinking. “Deal.”

 

* * *

 

Fifteen minutes later, pasta was boiling and the flat smelled of garlic and sizzling meat. Sherlock piled an armful of chemistry glassware behind the green chair and then carefully set his microscope beside it. John had despaired of his tidying methods but Sherlock didn’t see anything wrong with it. Mike and Betsy were going to be in the kitchen, after all, and they were hardly going to go poking around behind the chairs.

Their guests were soon knocking on the door. Spaghetti noodles tossed with Parmesan crusted scallops and wilted spinach were sitting in a bowl on the table. Garlic bread was warming in the oven and Sherlock was staring at his case notes pinned to the wall.

“Hey guys,” John let them in and graciously accepted a bottle of wine from Mike. Betsy was in a casual black skirt and satiny pink blouse and Mike had come from work, dressed in a smart button down shirt and tie.

“Sherlock.” John called, pouring wine for all of them. The sub sighed quietly and came into the kitchen. He had changed out of his dressing gown, favoring black trousers and a blue shirt John had given him.

“Oy!” Mike spluttered on his wine and stared at Sherlock’s neck. The detective frowned and reached up to touch—ah, the collar. Already he was as used to it as if it had been there his whole life.

“Oh, congratulations you two!” Betsy exclaimed, walking over to Sherlock and giving him a big hug.

“When did this happen?” Mike asked.

John was grinning at his sub, “a few days ago.”

“I’m so happy for you both.” Betsy beamed and Sherlock ducked away, blushing. _Just get through the meal._

John would say the whole evening was very pleasant. Sherlock would have described it as ‘tedious beyond all belief.’ After the dishes were cleared, John gave his sub the green light.

“Go, if you want. Thanks for your help.”

“You’re welcome.” Sherlock slammed the pile of dishes he was holding into the sink. He left the kitchen and went to his wall of notes and John smirked, settling down at the table again with a lemon raspberry cake Mrs. Hudson had baked for them the day before because ‘you boys are just so sweet!’

They talked for a bit and when the conversation turned towards all things medical, Betsy got up and wandered into the sitting room. Sherlock was cross-legged on the table, looking up at the wall notes.

“This is quite a collection.” She said, peering over the charts and photos and copied file pages pinned up above the sofa.

“Mmhm.” He rubbed his temples.

“Are you stuck?” She asked.

“No!” He snapped. Then, “a bit. Yes.”

Betsy got closer to the wall and stared at the victim’s photos and the scrawled notes. “Huh, was one of the victims a chef?”

“No.” Sherlock frowned. “Why?”

She gestured to the black and white image of the curling team. “Aside from professional athletes, no one else in their right mind would wear trousers like that unless they were training to be a cook. I should know,” she rolled her eyes, “I have a couple pairs of chef trousers myself.”

Sherlock leaped up and went to his laptop, clattering out a Google image search. “These?” He asked, spinning the laptop towards her.

She looked down at the black and white checkered clothes. “Yep. Mine look just like that.”

Jenkins’ words came back to Sherlock in a flash: _Onions and garlic too, just a little bit._

Sherlock hit the ‘print’ button on the Google search and the printer groaned to life, reluctantly spitting out the image. Sherlock grabbed the photo and his coat. “John! I’m going out!”

“Wait—where?!”

“Hospital!” And he was gone.

“Okay then.” John took a resigned bite of the cake and Mike laughed. Betsy wandered back into the room.

“I think he just had a break in the case.” She said.

John grabbed his phone and texted.

_I want you to check in with me every 15 minutes. If this is about the case, get Lestrade. —JW_

_Why?! —SH_

_Because if you don’t, you’ll be up shit creek without *a paddle* —JW_

_…texting Lestrade. —SH_

 “Sorry.” John put the phone down. “He’d better not make abandoning dinner a habit.”

“He drives you nuts sometimes.” Mike said cheerfully, helping himself to more cake.

“John, did you make this cake? It’s amazing.” Betsy tasted the frosting thoughtfully.

“No, our landlady Mrs. Hudson did. You two should meet.” John added. “She’s not in now, but someday…”

 

* * *

 

 Sherlock dashed out a text to Lestrade outside the hospital.

_Talking to Jenkins. You don’t need to be here. —SH_

He put his phone away and strode through the facility. He pushed into Michael’s room. He was watching a football match on TV with Blair. “Oh,” he said, “hey Mr. Holmes.”

“Are these the trousers your would-be killer wore?” Sherlock thrust the paper with the image of the checkered clothes at him.

“Yeah.” He licked his lips and looked at Blair. “Yeah, that’s them.”

“What did you do in the days before you were kidnapped?”

“We both work full time.” Michael added. “Two days before I, well, it happened, we just stayed in and ordered take away. The night after that we went out to eat. I ran some errands after.” Jenkins shrugged. “Bought some odds and ends. Got a coffee.”

“Where did you two go out to eat?” Sherlock asked.

“We went to that fancy place—Page Two.” Michael looked up at Blair and they smiled. “The food was so good.”

“And that night is when you were drugged?”

“Yes.”

Something familiar stirred in Sherlock’s palace. He needed to get back home and consult his notes.

“Excellent.” Sherlock left the room.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock bounced back up the steps at B. He could almost taste the case coming together in his palace. It was electrifying. It was maddening. He pushed open the door and found John alone, putting the cake away. “They left.” He said. “Didn’t know when you were going to be back…or if you were going to come back this time…”

“Oh, that’s fine.” Sherlock hung his coat and paced in the sitting room. A chef! The killer was likely a cook or chef in training of some kind. That would explain the use of sharp knives as weapons and the complete lack of anatomical knowledge.

“This came out of the printer once you’d gone.” John held a piece of paper out to him. “It’s probably nothing, just the ‘page two of two’ of whatever it was that had you running out of here before. Did you want dessert?”

Sherlock’s pacing slowed and he froze.

“Say that again.” He pointed at John.

“Uh, do you want to sit—”

“—No, no before that.”

“The ‘page two of two’ of that printed?”

“Page two of two…” Sherlock gasped and clasped his hands to his mouth as the scattered pieces of the case snapped into place—the lacerations from the knives—the menus in Dixon’s house—Owen’s wealthy doms—the garlic and onion smell. Sherlock grinned and stared at the wall of case notes. Oh how he loved this part. The part when his genius shone out of every window of his palace in glorious light. The thing that linked all the victims was the Michelin star restaurant, _Page Two._ The killer _had_ to be a chef there. He had to go there, they had to have a meal there. He looked at his watch. They’d already eaten, and it was well after nine o’clock. Damn.

“What are you on about?” John asked.

“ _John_ —despite not being anything even resembling a genius, you have an amazing ability to inspire it in other people!”

John glared at him. “Cheers.”

“No, I mean it! Oh John!” Sherlock whirled around and kissed him and this John was very amenable to.

“Wait,” John pulled back after a few fevered moments. “Did you solve it?”

“Not yet, but I know what needs to happen next.”

“So no more running around the city tonight?”

“No. Nothing can be done tonight. Unfortunately.” No point in telling the police. A group of officers flashing badges would scare the murderer off for sure. It would be odd for the two of them to pop into the restaurant solely for a dessert or such. It wasn’t that kind of place and he didn’t want to draw unusual attention to themselves. He knew John wouldn’t want to go out for something sweet. Not after all that cake.

There was nothing to be done until tomorrow then.

John opened his mouth to speak, hesitated, then closed it.

“What?” Sherlock asked.

“Please, Sherlock, whatever this is, don’t use yourself as bait for the murderer.”

“Why do you think I would do that?”

“Because I’ve seen your methods.”

“I won’t.” Sherlock said after a moment.

“Good.” John stroked his hand over Sherlock’s chest, rubbing a nipple and then squeezing his arse. “I think we can find a way to spend tonight. I have a genius to congratulate.”

Sherlock grinned. “Oh God, yes.”

“Anything you want.” John kissed his throat.

“Anything?”

“Well, within reason.” John added.

“I want the crop.”

“Okay.” John breathed against his collarbone. “The crop it is.”

Delighted, they headed for the bedroom.


	26. Page Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock go out for a nice meal, but after dinner the evening takes a very wrong turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello amazing readers. Thank you so, so much to everyone who's stuck with this fic for so long. I'm actually a little nervous about posting this chapter! Eesh. Okay, this chapter is the main reason the fic is tagged with ‘gore’ ‘knives’ ‘blood’ and ‘violence,’ so please be warned. I’d also like to point out that the fic is also tagged ‘happy ending’ as well, haha.

“Do you work tonight?” Sherlock asked the next day. It was lunchtime, and they were at the table with a risotto John had made. Sherlock was perched on the edge of the chair, as his back was sore and welted from the crop and his arse was throbby from being thoroughly fucked the previous night.

“I get off at five.”

“Put on your Sunday best when you get home. We’re going out to eat. My treat.”

“Oh? Where?”

“Somewhere nice. I want to celebrate the case break through.” _And do some reconnaissance work, but you don’t need to know that._

John took a bite and nodded. Anything to speed along the solving of this dangerous case was fine with him.

John went to work half an hour later and Sherlock called _Page Two,_ the Michelin star restaurant so many of the dead subs enjoyed going to. “I’d like to make a reservation for tonight.” He said to the hostess. “Preferably for six o’clock, would that be possible…? Excellent. Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

“Jesus, Sherlock. This is one of the nicest restaurants in London.” They stepped out of the cab on the street in front of the restaurant and John stared up at the subtle dark building, the words _Page Two_ scripted onto the stonework in curly white letters.

“Why not treat ourselves?” Sherlock said. John was wearing the black and blue tailored suit he’d worn for their school roleplay scene, and even though it was probably the nicest suit John owned or had ever owned, Sherlock appreciated the subtle reminder that John was very much his dom and Sherlock had come all over John’s hand while getting a spanking for his ‘filthy habits’ while his dom was wearing that suit. He shivered.

“Cold?” John asked, taking his arm.

“No. Just reminiscing.” He touched his dom’s chest.

“Ah.” John nodded knowingly. “I thought you’d appreciate it.” The doctor strode inside and Sherlock followed. Instantly he was alert and eying everyone in the room, employees mostly, but patrons as well. A bus boy was in the back corner by a computer. Sherlock glanced him up and down. _Too short, and I can tell by the way he’s standing that he has a bad knee._

“Good evening, gentlemen.” The brunette hostess was behind a black podium and she smiled genially at them. Sherlock sized her up. _Not strong enough to be the murderer._

They were seated in a corner and Sherlock sat so he was facing the room and able to take in details. He dismissed all the women, as Jenkins had said the killer was male. He also dismissed any men with a collar on since that would indicate submissives. That left four people that he could see. One of the waiters on the other side of the room was tall, male, and broad-shouldered. Hm. Sherlock watched him take a group’s order and walk back to the kitchen. He was a possibility.

The place had a quiet mood about it. Each table was semi sectioned off to encourage privacy among diners. The room was done up in tones of deep purple and white and little silver artsy lamps dangled over each table, illuminating them in soft light. Tiny candles flickered on each cloth-covered table and John knew instantly he was out of his depth in here. Sherlock had probably dined in a place like this before either for a case or through Mycroft or such but he was more of a ‘pub food’ kind of guy. The waiter handed them menus and John thanked him, glancing it over. Sherlock watched him retreat and dismissed him as well. _Too submissive to be the murderer._

“I wonder how the obsiblue prawns are different from regular ones?” John mused. He flipped the single page menu over. There was nothing on the other side.

“The truffle butter is good here.” Sherlock said, putting his napkin primly in his lap.

“I imagine it’s _all_ good.” John said. There were no prices on the menu. The only two options were a list of six vegetarian dishes or six non-vegetarian dishes.

The waiter came back and asked if they had any questions about anything. John had questions alright, but he wasn’t going to grill the man about prawns and gribiche dressing and expose his own naivete. There was a note at the bottom of the menu that encouraged patrons to ask the chef to tailor any of the listed options to their personal liking, something John noticed that Sherlock seemed keen on taking advantage of.

“Would I be able to substitute a few items?” Sherlock asked, looking at his neck and hands. “I have a sensitive palate.”

“Certainly, sir.” The waiter took John’s order and left their menus at the table, probably for reference later on. “I’ll have the chef come out to speak with you.” He said.

“Thank you.”

The waiter walked away and John noticed his sub examining him.

“What are you doing?” He stamped down the roar of jealousy in his ears.

“What do you mean?” Sherlock unfolded his napkin.

“Sensitive palate?” John asked. “Half our diet is take-away and biscuits.”

“For certain foods, yes.” Sherlock sipped his water and John slid his foot under the table, questing for his sub. Sherlock kept one eye on the kitchen door. Of course he didn’t have a sensitive palate, but if he’d been right in his conclusions (and he usually was), then the killer worked at this restaurant—and had access to the kitchen specifically. Slipping the drugs into drinks would be so easy. John made comments about the decor or his shift at the clinic, and Sherlock made all the right noises until someone, unmistakably a chef, appeared and headed towards their table. Sherlock watched him intently. He was certainly a dominant. He was tall and his build suggested that he would be more than capable of subduing a person and killing them, even someone struggling. None of the victims had been especially brawny. Submissives in general tended to be on the smaller side anyway.

He paused by their table. “Good evening, sirs. My name is Logan and I’m one of the chefs here. Were there some substitutions you would like on the menu?” His eyes were on Sherlock the entire time and when the detective gave him a sweet grin, his face broke into a smile.

“That was me.” He said apologetically. “I don’t mean to cause trouble at such a nice restaurant, but some of these foods are just too much for me.”

John stared at him, his water glass halfway to his mouth.

“Oh, that’s fine.” Logan encouraged, “please, we’re happy to substitute anything you’d like.”

Sherlock giggled and picked up the menu, asking about various dishes. His voice was pitched slightly higher and the chef leaned over his shoulder, their bodies practically rubbing as he pointed out different things on the menu he could switch.

“That’s a beautiful collar by the way.” Logan said, glancing down at Sherlock’s neck.

John cleared his throat.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said. “It was a gift.” He glanced at John, who was looking stormy on the other side of the table. Logan left after a few more moments with Sherlock’s specialized order and a request for a bottle of wine.

“I don’t know what the hell you’re up to,” John said in a low voice, “but don’t.”

“What?” Sherlock feigned innocence.

“That dom was flirting with you and you bloody responded!” John hissed. “First Coel and now him? Is it like a kink of yours to piss me off?”

Though Sherlock did like seeing John all gruff and bothered, tonight it was just going to be an unfortunate side effect. The waiter came by with the wine.

“I don’t just flirt with strangers.” He said to John.

“Yet here we are.”

Sherlock huffed and looked away.

“Look…I’m sorry.” John said. “I don’t want to row, just—doms look at you a certain way and I don’t like it.”

“Because you’re jealous.” Sherlock said. He sipped his red wine thoughtfully.

“Well, somewhat, yes.”

The first course of their food came then, some sort of greens with dressing. It was delicious and amazing and John soon forgot about the flirting and instead they both enjoyed their food. John had taken a risk on the obsiblue prawns and Sherlock was right about the truffle butter. Everything was succulent and delicious…until Chef Logan came out again to check on them.

“How is everything tasting?” He asked Sherlock. He ignored John completely.

“It’s delicious, thank you.” Sherlock smiled, then glanced away to John, who was staring at Logan with a boiling gaze. The chef seemed to take the hint and he moved off and didn’t come back.

The whole meal took a couple hours and by the end, they were both full and satisfied.

“That was amazing, love.” John said as Sherlock accepted the bill. “Are you sure you don’t want me to chip in?”

“No.” Sherlock shook his head. “My treat, remember?” _Can’t put a price on reconnaissance work._

They stood up and walked to the front of the restaurant, where they were wished a pleasant evening by the hostess. Sherlock paused. He didn’t want to leave yet. He hadn’t had a good look at the other waiter. He wanted a solid picture of everyone in his mind so he could instruct his homeless network to keep an eye on the exits. One of his network could follow or observe and report back to him so he could pinpoint it that way. John hadn’t wanted him to use himself as bait and he wasn’t too keen on getting hacked to bits either.

“John, can you get a cab? I need the loo.”

“Sure thing.” John walked outside and Sherlock pivoted on his heel, heading back into the restaurant. He headed for the loo, hoping to catch a glimpse of the man. The path to the toilets was discreetly marked and lead Sherlock down a winding hall, past a fire escape door, and into the men’s. Jenkins had given them very little description to go on, but based on his own observations, Chef Logan was a prime candidate. It was very possible the killer wasn’t working tonight or wasn’t even at this restaurant, but he wouldn’t know that without trying.

He pushed through the door and went to the sink. The room was all dark marble and buttery yellow light. He pissed and washed his hands, eying his reflection in the mirror. The light glinted off the silver on his collar and he shook his hands of excess water, grabbing a paper towel out of the dispenser. Something shifted in the stall behind him and he whirled around.

* * *

 

John sat in the idling cab. The meter was running and it had already been seven minutes. John texted him:

  _Where are you? I’m in the cab out front. —JW_

“You sure he’s coming, mate?” The cabbie asked.

“He’d better be. Give me one moment.” John got out of the cab and went back inside, a not so good feeling in his chest. The hostess looked up at him.

“Hello again, sir. Did you forget something?”

“Yeah, the man I came in here with. Could you direct me to the loo?”

“Certainly.” She pointed it out and he went down the long hall to the toilets. He entered and found them empty, save a used paper towel beside the bin.

“Sherlock.” He peered into each stall and looked around blankly. The room wasn’t big. If he was going to see him, he would have seen him by now. Maybe he was in the cab. He stepped out of room and into the corridor. He glanced around. The door to the women’s room was across the hall and the fire escape door was clearly labeled with a big red sign. John went back to the front and turned to the hostess.

“Excuse me, do you remember the man I came in here with?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see him leave?”

She thought for a moment. “He came back in once you’d both left, but I didn’t see him after that.”

“He didn’t walk back out this way?”

“Not that I saw.”

“Is there another entrance?”

“No, sir.”

“Thank you.”

He left and went back to the cab, idling by the curb. It was empty save for the driver.

“Dammit!”

“You okay, mate?” The cabbie eyed him nervously.

“No, here.” John gave him money and sent him on his way, then paced around on the pavement. Okay, okay. Breathe. Don’t be an idiot, just think. How could he find out where Sherlock went? He grabbed his phone and texted his sub.

  _Where are you? — JW_

 After that, he called Mycroft. Sherlock hadn’t written back to either text.

 _“John.”_ He answered after two rings. _“To what do I owe the pleasure?”_

“I can’t find your brother.” His voice was worried and harsh but he didn’t care. “Can you check the CCTV?” That had worked before, anyway.

“ _You lost him again_?” Mycroft asked in a drolling tone that John really didn’t want to deal with now.

“I didn’t lose him—he wandered off! He does that.”

Mycroft sighed on the other end of the line. _“Where are you?”_

John gave him the address.

_“There’s a camera in that area. I’ll check it.”_

_“A_ camera? _One_ camera?”

_“That’s a low crime area, John. One camera generally suffices.”_

John paced impatiently on the pavement while Mycroft checked.

_“Hm, there’s nothing.”_

“Of course not. Forty thousand cameras and not one picks up Sherlock.”

_“He knows where they are. He knows how to avoid them.”_

_“_ So do murderers!” John snapped.

 _“Murder?”_ Mycroft’s voice was pierced with alarm _. “What exactly do you suspect, Dr. Watson?”_

“That he buggered off after a killer—or got kidnapped.” John remembered the flirty chef and Sherlock’s unusual response to him. Could it be…?

_“I’ll see what I can do.”_

“Wait—!” But Mycroft had already hung up.

John called Lestrade.

_“Hey John—”_

“—I think he’s been abducted by the killer and I think I might know who the killer is.”

Greg arrived outside the restaurant ten minutes later in an unmarked police car. A couple other cars pulled up with him and a few plainclothes officers John didn’t recognize jumped out and went inside. Lestrade found John pacing restlessly, looking at his phone.

“What happened?” He asked.

So John told him about the flirty chef and Sherlock’s run to the loo that he didn’t return from.

“I think it’s the chef.” John said. “Sherlock was analyzing people all night. I knew he was looking for the killer.” John snarled to himself. “This stupid restaurant was just a ruse!”

“Alright, calm down.” Greg said. The last thing he needed was John going in Defense. “He probably took him to The Broads.”

They stared at each other for a moment, neither saying what they were both thinking. If they didn’t get there in time, Sherlock would be another tally on the victim list.

John continued. “He asked Jenkins about The Broads and he mentioned the smell of garlic and onion—a chef would smell of food even away from their restaurant. Betsy’s complained about it.”

What if it wasn’t Logan? Maybe the chef was just flirty and the murderer was dining at the restaurant, sizing Sherlock up from across the room. Maybe _Page Two_ had nothing to do with anything.

 _Think._ Sherlock’s voice spoke in his head. _You’re not as dumb as you look, John. The pieces are all there._

 

* * *

 

Sherlock woke up, groggy and with a headache splitting his skull. He opened his eyes. Bright light blasted his retinas and he slammed them shut. His brain struggled to snap to conclusions. _Bright, I’m laying on a hard surface. My head is killing me._ He gradually became aware of several things at once. He was on his back. He was wearing pants and nothing else. He was indoors and the room was warm but the scent of crackling woodsmoke blinded his nose to every other scent. He went to lift his arm and it was then he realized he was tied down at the wrists and ankles.

Sherlock opened his eyes carefully, squinting. He could see the reflection of gold red fire flickering on the wooden walls. A large spotlight was rigged up above him, illuminating his bare body in startling clarity. Jenkins hadn’t mentioned a bright light. He shifted, finding that all his limbs were bound and tied. Rustling underneath indicated He was spread out over a plastic tarp and Sherlock swallowed.

This was bad.

“Well now.” A man crouched over him, a long silver knife in his hand. Every part of his face, save his eyes, was covered with a black knit mask. “Looks like I didn’t need to dose everyone after all. A hard whack on the head does the job just fine.”

Sherlock recognized the voice instantly, despite the slight muffling of the mask. “Why, Logan? Why do all this?”

He paused, then lifted the mask. No point now if Sherlock knew who he was. “Because you’re going to hurt your dom.”

“No, I’m not.” He said, confused.

“You might not know it yet, but you will.”

“Logan, I won’t hurt him.”

“Of course you won’t.” He leaned over as if sizing up a prime slab of meat, seeing where to cut first. He looked down at Sherlock almost lovingly. “I’m going to stop you.”

Logan held the skin taut just under Sherlock’s ribs and made a long shallow slice.

He hissed, trying to squirm away from the burning sting of the knife.

“Hush.” Logan soothed. “It’ll be over soon.”

“Why do you think I’ll hurt him?” Sherlock blinked as Logan lifted the bloodied knife away. Warmth dripped, pooling under his back.

“Because that’s what happens when you love someone!” Logan snapped.

“No, Logan. When you love someone you don’t hurt them.”

“Anthony said he loved me.” Logan said, wiping the knife clean.

“What happened to him?”

“He’s gone.” Logan cupped Sherlock’s face with his bloody gloved hand. “And before tomorrow you will be too.”

 

* * *

 

Lestrade and John flew up the M11, siren blaring. Lestrade had called his friend Ian Nichols with the local police in Norwich, only able to tell him that their serial killer was possibly back in The Broads. John gripped the handle above the passenger door as Greg blazed up the thoroughfare, his teeth grit. Even with the siren on, it would take forever to get there. They had obnoxiously little information to go on, but Greg assured him the Norwich police were dutifully searching the huge area.

The Broads were mostly a holiday destination covering over 300 square kilometers. Cabins and hotels were scattered among the multiple rivers and marshy land and the police only knew that they were looking for a serial killer, likely in a privately owned cabin. Finding Sherlock in that sprawling marsh would be as easy as finding a tourism office in North Korea. Mycroft was on it though, and for all John knew he had a team of elite divers and and dogs and helicopters and James Bond himself out there looking. When they got out of this alive, John was going to sit with Sherlock on the sofa and watch a Bond film. A fire would be going and they would be drinking tea. Sherlock would be curled up beside him, naked, the collar around his neck as he shouted at everyone on the screen. John would let him conduct disgusting bloody body part experiments in bed if he wanted to and bring whatever dead thing he desired into the flat and he wouldn’t complain at all. It would be amazing and John clung to the idea as tears stung his eyes. Sherlock _couldn’t_ die. He was the one. He was the person John wanted to spend his life with. God, why hadn’t he said that to him yet? Sherlock could die never knowing. John couldn’t think of that. He couldn’t dwell on whether or not Sherlock was going to be dead when they found him. He sure as hell wasn’t going to break down crying in front of Lestrade. He had to focus now on finding his partner and getting him safe. Sherlock would roll his eyes and scoff and call John sentimental if he knew he was fighting back tears. The doctor smiled to himself and called Sherlock’s phone again. It was at least something to do.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock stared up at a brown water stain on the ceiling, just barely visible past the bright white light. The slice under his ribs had stopped bleeding and he could feel the tight scabs forming. Another cut curved down his abdomen and it felt like Logan was tracing a shape on his lower left waist. He could smell the metal iron tang of his blood. His brain was sluggish from the blood loss and he blinked slowly. _Just keep talking. If you’re talking, you’re not dead._

“Anthony was your sub?” He asked.

“Yes.” Logan was fiddling with his knives at the dining table near other wall.

“Were you married?”

“Engaged.”

“Mmm.”

“This was his cabin. He got sick. He put me in his will.” Logan held a knife up to the light, admiring the thin edge. “I was supposed to get it. Everything he had, really,” Logan chuckled, “until his family heard.” He put that knife down and selected a different one and held it up. It was serrated and the sight of those little steel teeth bounced Sherlock’s brain into higher gear.

“They weren’t happy with you being in the will?”

“Nope. Called me ‘some cook’ and said their son wasn’t going to marry down. Posh bastards. Anthony wasn’t like that.”

“Mmm, snobby, were they?”

“Anthony loved me.”

“Of course he did.”

“I loved him and he left me. He hurt me. Subs shouldn’t hurt their doms.”

“When did he die?”

“April.” Logan tightened his fist around the knife handle. “They took me out of the will. They took our cabin. Now I’m taking you.”

“Killing me won’t help my dominant.” Sherlock hissed.

“Hush. It’s a shame, really. You’re a pretty one.” He glanced over Sherlock’s body. “Such a shame.”

 

* * *

 

Lestrade’s phone rang. He used the car’s Bluetooth to answer.

 _“Lestrade,”_ Nichols’ voice was crackly, _“we’ve identified the suspect as Logan Cahill. There’s no record of any Cahill having a residence in The Broads. We’re searching his home in London now.”_

“What about phone GPS?” John asked before Lestrade could respond. “Can you track his or Sherlock’s phone?”

_“There’s no GPS signal on either phone.”_

“Keep looking. Keep us updated.” Lestrade said. The line disconnected.

“Jenkins said,” John began, “that he was picked up in Ferndale. He was walking along the road and could see by moonlight.”

“Yeah?” Greg said.

“That would mean there wasn’t a lot of tree cover if he could see the moon the whole time. The road was dirt.”

Lestrade dialed his phone. It rang once.

_“Nichols.”_

“Ian, do you know of any roads near Ferndale that are dirt and not surrounded by trees?”

“ _Short answer? There’s more than a few. There’s a stretch of marsh there along one of the busier routes that’s lined with, well, mostly ferns. Not many tall trees. I’ll direct some people there.”_

He hung up.

“We’ll find him, John.” Greg said. John’s grip tightened on the handle.

_But will we find him in time?_

 

* * *

 

Logan admired his knife for a moment and thumbed the blade, then turned to Sherlock.

“What did he die of?” Sherlock asked.

“Cancer. Liver, spleen. Spine.”

The traced wounds suddenly made sense. Logan had carved out the shape of his liver and his spleen right on his skin. The other cuts were there just to ensure blood loss and thus, weakness. Gooseflesh popped up over his skin as more of the clues slotted into place. That’s why the victims had been in pieces. Logan had eviscerated and chopped them up. Sherlock blinked a few times. Logan was going to cut out his organs and then get rid of his body somehow.

“Are you cold?” Logan asked suddenly, noting his gooseflesh.

He wasn’t, but… “A little bit.”

Logan put the knife down and went to the fire. “You should have said something.” He prodded the cracked, black logs and threw a fresh one on top. The fire roared.

“I’m thirsty too.” Sherlock said, wondering just how long he could draw this out.

“I’ll get you something…” To his surprise, Logan left the room. Sherlock looked around. A table and chairs were pushed to one wall. The fireplace in the corner. The curtains were drawn and clipped closed, ensuring no one on the outside could see in. He yanked at the restraints, but he was tied with rough knotted rope that was fastened to metal rings drilled into the walls. He wouldn’t slip out of this anytime soon.

“Here we are.” Logan came back in the room with a bottle of water. He cracked it open, his hands leaving bloody marks on the plastic. He tilted it into Sherlock’s mouth and he sipped as slowly as possible.

“That’s a nice collar.” Logan said, admiring the strip of leather around Sherlock’s throat. “Did your dom give it to you?”

“Yes.”

“We wouldn’t want it to get damaged.” Logan put the water aside and reached around, unbuckling it and setting it on the floor, away from the tarp. “He can get it back once you’re dead.”

“Logan, I don’t need to die. My death will hurt him—we don’t want another dom to be hurt, do we?”

He seemed to pause. “I know you’re trying to get out of this, Sherlock Holmes. I know you’ve been tracking me with the police. You shouldn’t have done that. Now, I’m going to roll you over.”

“No—”

“—hush, be still. It’ll be over soon.”

“No, no Logan, we don’t have to do this—is this what Anthony would have wanted?”

“Anthony is gone.”

“Would he have wanted you to kill subs?” _Keep talking, keep talking. Stall…_

“It’s better your dom accepts your death now than later on when you get sick and die.”

“I won’t get sick.”

“You can’t promise him anything. Stop talking now.”

“I’m not sick, Logan.”

The dom sighed and stood up, regarding Sherlock regretfully. “I wish I didn’t have to do this, but you just won’t shut up.”

Sherlock gulped. Oh God, what was he going to do now? What could possibly be worse than getting slowly chopped to pieces?

Logan stepped over Sherlock’s body and picked a thin Tshirt up off the table. He came back over and knelt beside him, rolling the shirt into a rope and forcing it between his lips. He tied it around his head. Then he picked up the knife then and slashed it cruelly over Sherlock’s forearm. He shouted out around the gag and jerked on the floor as fresh blood poured out to the tarp.

Suddenly, Logan looked up towards the front window, the curtains taped closed. He gripped the knife and lifted the curtain and peeked very carefully out the window, glancing up and down the dark road. Sherlock whimpered, unable to do anything but watch the crimson river slide out of his throbbing forearm. He really hoped the knife hadn’t nicked the radial artery. If it had, there wasn’t much time left. He rested his head back on the tarp, angry and terrified at how helpless he was.

 

* * *

 

Lestrade and John flew up a dirt road in Ferndale, lined with nothing but small bushes. John drummed fingers on the plastic door handle and took a deep breath.

“Greg, my Defense is coming on.”

“Do you have suppressants?”

“No.”

“Look in the glove box.”

“I don’t want anything!” John growled. He cracked the knuckles on his fist one by one.

“John, I can’t let you kill him. If you kill him, that’s jail time and Sherlock’s going to need you after this. I can turn a blind eye to that cabbie, but this? No. Take the pills.”

John yanked open the glove box and found the bottle of little white tablets. The directions said to take two. He shook one pill out and grudgingly swallowed it dry. Lestrade was right. One pill would take the edge off and clear his head enough to focus.

Lestrade’s phone rang. Ian.

“Tell me something good.” Greg said.

Ian simply read off an address. John slammed it into the car’s GPS and Greg hit the gas pedal. _“Our officers did some research with a, ah_ Mycroft Holmes? _Am I reading that name right?”_

“Yes.” Greg muttered. He put the siren on again and did a hairpin turn, kicking up plumes of dust as they screeched off.

_Hold on, Sherlock, just a bit longer._

 

* * *

 

Sherlock lay limp on the tarp, breathing deep long breaths. He blinked slowly as a haze gradually settled over his body. His arms ached. His torso throbbed. He was sticky with dried blood and the stink of iron was overwhelming. Each time he closed his eyes he thought of John. John was coming for him. John loved him. The thought gave him strength and he formulated a small plan.

“There now.” Logan nudged his limp arm with his foot. “Nice and quiet. Pliant.” He pulled the gag out of his mouth and untied Sherlock’s wrists, then his ankles. “Come on, roll over.” Logan grabbed his body.

“No.” Sherlock mumbled.

“Yes.” Logan started to roll him and Sherlock, in a burst of energy, kneed him right in the kidney.

“Ow!” Logan yelped, dropping his body. Sherlock kicked his leg out, slamming Logan behind the knee. The man toppled to the ground and Sherlock glanced towards the other room. The front door. If he could just get outside and find someone he could be free. He scrambled to his feet…only to stumble as all of the feeling drained from his muscles. He staggered into the table and braced himself on the sturdy wood, breathing hard. A few scabs had torn open and he was bleeding freely again. _Fuck._ He was far too weak to make it to the door. His head pounded and the table he was braced on blurred and tilted around at crazy angles. He gripped the wood harder and tried to gain his balance. He couldn’t even estimate how much blood he’d lost or how much he still had to go before his body just gave up and died.

Sherlock took a deep breath. He couldn’t die. John was out there and he loved John and he was not going to die at the hands of some lunatic, not while he had any strength left in his body. He grit his teeth and surged upright. His knees were quivering like an excited Chihuahua and he knew he must look a sight painted in rust brown and bright red, the dark slices on his body covered in purple-red scabs.

“That was stupid, boy.” Logan grabbed him from behind and pressed a knife to his throat. “You’re a troublesome one. The others didn’t give me nearly as much bullshit as you are.”

“Except Jenkins.” He snapped.

Logan plunged the knife between Sherlock’s right ribs. The sudden pain of it jolted more adrenaline into his body and he elbowed Logan as hard as he could, but it was like a mouse pouncing on a lion.

There was a sound like a door slamming somewhere and Sherlock wondered if it was his brain going into some sort of spasm from the blood loss. “Weak, aren’t you? Your dom will understand.” Logan soothed. “He’ll know that you died to save him.”

“The only person who’s getting saved is my sub, you fucking bastard!”

Sherlock closed his eyes and couldn’t help smiling. _John._ Even with his voice an octave deeper and far angrier than Sherlock had ever heard, he knew it was his dominant. He could really use someone on his side right now. Angry footsteps stomped into the room and Sherlock glanced over his shoulder.

John’s eyes were blown pitch black with anger and his fists were clenched hard. His forehead and neck were shiny with sweat and his teeth were grit and every ounce of his focus was on Logan and that silver knife in his hand, leaning threateningly over his bloodied sub. Sherlock heard the muffled _clap!_ of hands grabbing onto a body before Logan was ripped off of him. The knife clattered to the floor and John bashed Logan’s face into the table beside him with a loud crunching _thud._ Sherlock startled at the sudden sound and again Logan was yanked out of his line of vision.

The door slammed again.

“John! Jesus!”

Lestrade.

Wet thuds and slaps popped behind him and Sherlock took a deep breath, willed his legs to work, tried to stand, and then promptly slipped down the table and collapsed on the area rug. John picked Logan up off the floor and then threw him back-first into the hardwood. Sherlock stared in surprise. Logan was at least six inches taller than John—and fairly muscular too. His forehead was scraped up and his nose mangled from meeting the table. John’s face was twisted and almost frightening as he methodically and brutally took Logan down. The chef swung a fist, trying to fight back, but John caught his hand and wrenched it, easily breaking his wrist in a crunch of bone. Logan howled.

“Do you think this is fucking okay, you piece of shit?” John’s voice was a deep snarl and he shook him hard, rattling him against the floor. “You think it’s alright to murder submissives?!”

“John Watson!” Lestrade yelled. “Let go!”

He may as well have not even been speaking. He had his gun drawn and glanced frantically between John and Sherlock. If he went near the sub to help, John would probably attack. But if he did nothing, John would probably kill Logan.

Logan’s cheekbone crumbled under John’s knuckles and he shouted out in pain.

“John.” Sherlock croaked. His voice was tissue paper thin and pathetic. The doctor dropped Logan like a sack of moldy peas and scurried to Sherlock’s side, crouching and lovingly cradling his blood streaked face and looking at him with a soft expression, belied somewhat by Logan’s blood splattered up his cheek. “An ambulance is on the way, love.” He spoke gently and hugged him close to his chest. He yanked off his jacket and draped it over Sherlock’s shoulders and applied pressure to his dripping forearm. “You’ll be okay.” John’s voice was shaky with tears and he gulped, kissing the top of his curly head. “You’ll be okay.”

Sherlock glanced up at Lestrade. He was crouched near Logan—still conscious somehow—two gloved fingers looking for his pulse in his neck. He was speaking into his phone.

“John…” Sherlock mumbled.

“Hush, just stay quiet.”

“John.”

“You’re very weak, Sherlock, we’ll talk later.”

“No, John…” Sherlock tried to lift his arm and failed. He was too weak to move it so he simply pointed at his dom’s leg. John looked down. A short knife handle was poking out of his bloodstained jeans, the blade embedded in his calf.

“Son of a bitch.”

That was the last thing Sherlock heard before he passed out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a tumblr now! Come talk to me if you'd like :D ttime42.tumblr.com


	27. Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock recover from the encounter with Logan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff and schmoop and more BAMF John.

 

When Sherlock woke up, the first thing that he was aware of was that he was warm and laying on something soft.

_Bed._

The second thing was that there was a quiet, mechanical beeping sound not far from his head.

_Hospital._

The third and most important thing was that there was definitely a warm, familiar body cuddled up beside him, breathing softly on his neck.

_John._

Sherlock smiled. He wasn’t in pain, finally, and if John was here then he was safe. He opened his eyes. The room was dim and smelled of latex and frigid air con. A window on the far wall showed a dark square of night sky, the city lights in points of yellow and white. Half a florist’s shop was arranged on the table on the other side of the room. A brown sofa was beside the table and on it sat Mycroft, doing paperwork by the pooled light of a lamp pulled close beside him. His suit coat was draped over a chair and his dark tie loosened. He looked up and when he saw Sherlock was awake, he put his papers aside and came to him.

“Are you in pain?” He asked. His voice was low so he wouldn’t disturb John. There was a smudge of blue-grey under his right eye. Sherlock blinked. It looked like a bruise.

“No.” Sherlock whispered. “Is he in Defense?” He glanced at John.

“Yes. Though the facility demanded he take a suppressant if he wanted to stay with you.”

“Where are we?”

“A hospital, of a sort. They specialize in discretion and the highest quality care.”

Sherlock glanced around the room. Everything was sleek and clean and furnished in such a way that was clearly designed to be as home-like as possible. Light woods and framed abstract paintings. Some kind of geometric wallpaper detail graced the walls and there was a padded rocking chair near the window. Sherlock would bet that the sofa folded out into a bed.

He hummed and rested his head back on the pillow. Everything felt sort of thick inside his skull, dulled by morphine. He looked at John slumbering beside him in a Tshirt and sweatpant bottoms, his head tucked down into the crook of Sherlock’s neck. The bed was wider than a typical hospital bed. It was designed with couples in mind. Sherlock smiled.

“The nurse wanted to be alerted when you woke.” Mycroft glanced at John and something that could almost be called fondness came over his face before he stepped back and left the room, even though he could have just pushed a button to summon someone.

John stirred beside him. “S’he gone?”

“Yes.” Sherlock smiled.

“Good.” John pressed a kiss to a patch of Sherlock’s neck. “You’re not in pain?”

“No, John.”

“Okay. Do you need anything?”

“Just you.”

“Well, that you have. Water?”

“Alright.”

John reached behind himself and grabbed a plastic cup with a straw off the little table, holding it as Sherlock sipped. John put it back when he was finished.

“What happened?”

“What do you remember?”

“Bleeding.” Sherlock mumbled. “ _Page Two._..”

John settled back down beside him and spoke in a rumbly voice. “You had a Grade III hemorrhage. You lost almost two pints of blood. After I made Logan wish he’d never been born, the ambulance showed up and I went with you to Norwich hospital. You got fluids and a transfusion and when you were stable, Mycroft’s men showed up and took us to this place.”

“What day is it?”

“Monday.”

Sherlock was quiet, trying to figure out how he lost three days.

“My collar!” His eyes flew open and the heart monitor sped up as he groped his neck.

“I have it.” John assured him, catching his hand. “Settle, sh, sh…”

Sherlock did, relaxing back into the pillows. “What happened?” His voice was hushed.

“We found you in The Broads on Friday afternoon. You were in hospital in Norwich for forty hours. You got a transfusion and were stabilized and then they airlifted us here. To be honest, I’m not sure where in the hell we are. South of London. You’d call me unobservant, but I had a good reason Mr. Holmes, I was distracted…”

“You got hurt.” Sherlock blurted, remembering the knife handle sticking grotesquely out of his leg.

“I was stabbed in the left calf with a two and a half inch blade. I’m stitched up and packed with gauze and the good drugs. I’m expected to make a full recovery, as are you.”

“Mycroft said you’re in Defense.”

“He’s right.” John growled.

Sherlock was quiet, remembering now John slamming Logan around.

“Did you kill him?” He whispered. “Logan?”

“No. If Lestrade hadn’t made me take a suppressant before I went in there, I probably would have. He deserved it.”

Sherlock was quiet, remembering how vicious John had been in the cabin. That was him on suppressants? Sherlock licked his lips. He’d deduced correctly: John’s Defense _was_ terrifying. Without the pills, pieces of Logan’s body probably would have been flying across the room. He smiled.

“I may have…” John shifted sheepishly beside him, “punched one of Mycroft’s people too. And maybe shoved a paramedic…they were touching you.”

“To get me in the ambulance.” Sherlock pointed out. Damn, he wished he’d been cogent enough to see all this.

“Yeah. Defense is weird.”

“Did you punch Mycroft?” Sherlock asked in a quiet, hopeful voice.

“Yes.” John said after a moment.

“And yet you live?” Sherlock’s voice was awed and amazed.

“I’m not proud of that.” John muttered. “He, he was trying to calm me down. The paramedic was threatening a tranquilizer and Greg had to slap me across the face. He said if I didn’t stop acting like a lunatic that he’d cuff me and keep me from seeing you.” He hugged his sub tighter. “I calmed down enough for them to give me a suppressant and I rode in the ambulance.”

Sherlock blinked a few times as he digested this and the nurse— _submissive, obvious from the shape of her nails and that particular shade of lipstick_ —entered the room. “Good evening, Mr. Holmes. My name is Melissa. How are you feeling?” She turned the light up a little bit and looked at his chart. A big black letter ‘S’ was emblazoned in the top corner of each page of the chart, meaning that only submissive staff were allowed to treat him because of John’s Defense. Even on suppressants, it was best not to stir anything up. John shifted and sat up carefully, easing his weight onto his good leg and grabbing for the crutches. He reached out to his sub when he was balanced and Sherlock squeezed his arm.

“We have to change your bandages, love.”

Melissa pulled the white sheet and cream cotton blanket back and untied his gown and Sherlock got his first look at his body. White strips of bandages and gauze covered his ribs and left waist. The worst of it was on his arms and he remembered then that Logan had slashed his arm pretty deeply. He’d worried that he was going to bleed out and die. He gulped. A bandage was taped over his abdomen and the long slice on his waist was starting to throb. The deep cut in his forearm was starting to wake up too. The nurse set to work. John grabbed a pair of gloves and helped, binning the used gauzes and keeping up a bright monologue to distract him. “Everyone sent flowers. Mike and Betsy sent the big one, and Lestrade and his team sent those white and yellow things. Molly’s are the roses and Mrs. Hudson sent the purple tall ones. There’s some of those dipped biscuits you like from her too.”

“Did Seb send anything?” He asked, gritting his teeth.

John lips tightened as he tossed used gauze away. “No.” He said, “and if he has any brain cells at all, he’ll never contact us again.”

Sherlock watched with mild interest as they coated each cut with stinging antiseptic and replaced the bandages with fresh white clean ones and by the end of it, he was grouchy from being touched so much and irritated by the renewed pain.

“Just your ribs and then you can sleep again.” John promised. “Lean forward.” John braced his arm across his sub’s chest and the nurse raised the head of the bed. Sherlock tilted forward and John shucked the gown up. This one hurt. He grit his teeth and squeezed the hell out of John’s arm as the nurse efficiently stripped the bandage, cleaned the stab wound stitches, and stuck new gauze on there, all in about a minute.

“All done.” John promised, easing him back.

Sherlock grabbed the morphine drip and cranked it up, closing his eyes. That had been disgustingly exhausting. John and the nurse stripped off their gloves.

“Excellent, Mr. Holmes.” The nurse wrote something on the chart. “If you or Doctor Watson get hungry at any point, don’t hesitate to ring the kitchen. You don’t have any diet restrictions and they operate twenty four hours.”

“Thanks, Melissa” John said. “I’ll see if I can get something in him.”

“Excellent. The doctor will be in shortly.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock alternated between eating and sleeping for the first four days of hospitalization and by day five, he was making his impatience known over breakfast.

“Mycroft, I’m leaving today.” He said.

“You are not leaving.”

“There’s no reason for me to be here anymore!”

“You nearly died of exsanguination! This is the only place you should be!”

“When did you go to medical school, _Doctor_?” Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft pinched the ridge of his nose. “Your doctor said—”

“— _my_ doctor’s not here!” He shot back. He picked a piece of cantaloupe rind off his breakfast tray and flung it at his brother. It bounced off his chest and Sherlock looked triumphant. John had gone back to 221 to “have a proper shower and clean up the place for when you come home.” He wasn’t back yet. He had been…odd, these past few days. Distant, despite sharing his hospital bed. Sherlock saw the far off look in his eyes when he thought his sub was asleep and he wondered what John was thinking about. Was this case the final straw in their relationship? How long could he reasonably expect John to continue to date him if cases like this could pop up at any moment?

“Stop throwing food.” Mycroft scolded. He picked up the cantaloupe rind and threw it away. “John is on his way back.”

Sherlock snatched his phone and texted his dom.

_Where are you? Mycroft is being mean to me. —SH_

_One of his minions picked me up fifteen minutes ago. We’re almost there. —JW_

 “John says you’re a prat.” Sherlock told his brother.

“No he didn’t.” Mycroft said. His phone rang and he walked out of the room to answer it, vaguely wondering if he could get the nurse to give his brother a sedative to shut him up.

John walked into the room ten minutes later, sporting only the mildest limp. He was wearing fresh trousers and blue striped long-sleeved shirt and holding a duffel bag with an old comfy pair of sweats for Sherlock and one of his own black undershirts. He purposely had worn it and not washed it, knowing that Sherlock would enjoy wearing his clothes. A few tired lines were carved around his eyes.

“John, I want to go home.” He announced, watching the man set the bag down and slip his jacket off.

“I want you home too. These suppressants aren’t agreeing with me.” He made a face and rubbed his belly. “I need to go into Defense properly and let it run its course.” He smoothed some hair off his sub’s forehead and kissed him hello, smiling fondly at him.

Melissa came in behind him with some supplies, bidding them all a cheerful “good morning!” She pulled his chart out. “I’m just going to check your vitals, Mr. Holmes.”

“Don’t want you to.” He said.

“Sherlock.” John glanced at him. “Yes you do. I’ll help you sit up.”

“Fine.” Sherlock raised the bed and John helped him slide into a sitting position. “Why can’t I go home today?” Sherlock said, a gleam in his eye. He held out his arm and allowed a blood pressure cuff to be wrapped around his bicep. “There’s nothing happening here that can’t happen at the flat. I’m surrounded by dull here.”

“Is Melissa dull?” John asked. She smiled as she pumped the cuff.

“Yes.” He said.

“Sherlock.” John squeezed his hand and gave him his best ‘I’m smiling but you’re toeing the line’ smile. “Are you terrorizing the staff while I’m not here, sweetheart?”

“No.” He huffed.

“Has he thrown food at you yet?” John asked the nurse.

“Only once.” She admitted.

John stared at his sub, one brow up.

“I want to go home.” Sherlock groused, looking away.

“I’ll take the rest of his vitals.” John held out his hand for the chart.

She stared at him. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. I have lots of experience. Both with charts and with this one.” He pointed at Sherlock.

“He was a doctor in Afghanistan.” Sherlock told her with pride.

“Oh.” She blinked. “Sure, thank you.” She handed over the chart and left and John put the stethoscope on.

“Right.” He said sternly. “No more nonsense.”

Sherlock was grinning.

“If you’re good and hold still for all this, I’ll talk to your doctor and work on getting you back to B. But only if you’re good.”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, John.”

“Alright, then.” He rubbed the ‘scope against his sleeve to warm it, then set it against his sub’s chest. “Deep breath.”

Sherlock took three deep breaths and John marked the chart. “Good. Pulse next.”

He put two fingers on his sub’s wrist and looked at watch, counting out a ten second interval. It was a little fast, but that was normal for his sub.

“Temperature.” John pulled out the tympanic thermometer and powered it on.

“I don’t have a fever, John. That was never the issue.”

“It’s part of the vitals.” John said.

“It’s a waste of time.”

“There’s other places I can stick this thing, you know.” John pushed his hair aside and slid the nub into his ear.

“I think I’d prefer you sticking something else into said ‘other places.’

Sherlock smiled and John sighed, shaking his head fondly. “When you’re up for it.”

“Yes.” Sherlock agreed.

John looked at the screen. “Thirty six point nine, very good.” John popped off the nub and binned it. “Last thing, let me feel your glands.”

He rubbed Sherlock’s throat and was relieved to find that everything was fine.

“There.” John marked the final bit of info on the chart. “And for being such a _good boy_ ,” John clicked the pen closed and tossed the chart aside. “I think you deserve a treat.”

“Oh do I, doctor?”

John propped his knee up on the bed and kissed him and Sherlock hummed happily, pulling him closer and rubbing his hands up and down his waist. John held the sides of his neck and Sherlock was just starting to slide his hand down his dom’s waistband—

“Oh good Lord.” Mycroft strolled back into the room, tapping on his phone. He rolled his eyes at the sight of them.

Sherlock growled and turned away from him and John eased up to his feet, favoring his leg. His fists clenched and he stared at Mycroft. He looked up from his phone and passed a single look over John’s body language.

“I thought you were still on the suppressant?” He said, freezing in place.

“I took half a dose.” John grumbled.

“I’ll get the doctor.” Mycroft left the room, knowing far better than to antagonize him. John smiled. He turned back to Sherlock, his eyes bright with mischief. “I didn’t.” He said, kissing his forehead. “I took a full dose last night. I just wanted him to leave.”

“Brilliant. My hero.” Sherlock smiled into the kiss. “We should tell him you’re in Defense every time he wants to come over—he’ll never stop by the flat again!” He looked delighted, like he’d just discovered his dom had superpowers. John laughed just as Dr. Williams, a sub, walked into the room.

“When can I leave?” Sherlock asked. John reluctantly pulled away but his hand lingered in his sub’s.

The doctor smiled. “Eager to get out of here?” He looked at the chart.

“I’m stable.” Sherlock said. “John’s a doctor and we live together. Anything else that needs to be done he can do at the flat.”

“Will you be safe there?” Williams asked, making a note on the chart. “No more murderers?”

“I think so.” Sherlock said dryly, remembering John slamming Logan around. John in Defense and armed with a gun? Just the idea made him feel safe.

The doctor flipped a page on the chart. “If you’d be more comfortable at home, then I don’t see a reason to keep you here.” He glanced at John. “You can start leaving the stitches uncovered. Take showers, not baths. I’ll have Melissa give you some more bandages and ointment. She’s filling your prescription downstairs now for the pain pills.”

John nodded.

“Any issues though,” the doctor spoke to John, “and he comes right back.”

“Of course.”

Sherlock was grinning like a madman.

 

* * *

 

 

John texted Mycroft that his brother was getting discharged ASAP and by the time he was dressed and ready (content in the John-scented shirt, collar back in place around his neck) and the flowers packed carefully in some plastic bags, a black car was outside in front waiting. John thought this pretty sporting, considering he had socked Mycroft in the face. He half expected the older Holmes to make him disappear, but it seemed Sherlock’s happiness transcended a punch in the face. They eased into the car with all the plants and a goody-bag of gauze and supplies and the driver took them home. It took them both a little longer than normal to get up the steps and John was issuing commands the moment they walked over the threshold.

“If you’re in pain, you tell me. If any stitches burst, you tell me. If—”

“—if my dom is annoying, I’ll tell you.”

“Cheeky.” John set the flowers down and watched as Sherlock carefully made his way to the desk, opening up his computer and powering it on. John came over to him and pulled him into the most careful hug he could manage. Sherlock was surprised to feel him trembling slightly.

He cupped the back of John’s head and pressed a kiss to his crown.

“God, Sherlock…” John hissed. “I thought I’d lost you.”

“You got there in time.” He said.

John took a shaky breath and Sherlock hugged him tight, wanting to feel his dom’s body on his. “I’m fine, John. I’ll heal up just fine and everything will be the same again.”

“Why the hell did you go after Logan?” John’s voice was disappointed. “I specifically asked you not to use yourself as bait.”

“I didn’t.” Sherlock insisted. “I took us to _Page Two_ just so I could look.”

John looked up at him, skeptical. Sherlock continued quickly.

“I, I wanted to do reconnaissance work and I planned on telling my homeless network to keep an eye out, once I had a useful description of the suspects.”

John blinked at him and his face grew stern.

“I swear, John. I wasn’t going to use myself as bait. I didn’t exactly want to get eviscerated.”

John stared at him a moment longer and for a horrible moment, Sherlock thought he didn’t believe him. His features softened then and he smiled, warm and rumpled and soft.

“Okay, then.” John hugged him once more and sighed and Sherlock patted his back.

“Tea?” John offered.

“Please.” They broke apart and Sherlock sat carefully at his laptop and murmured a thank you as John set the mug beside him.

The dom set another mug beside his own laptop. He unpacked the flowers and put them on the mantle, in the kitchen, wherever there was space. He locked the flat’s door and opened his gun safe, checking that there were bullets.

“No one is going to bother us.” Sherlock said. “Where are they keeping Logan?”

“I didn’t get the name of the hospital.” He stood behind Sherlock and rested a hand on his shoulder. “He hurt you so I hurt him.”

Sherlock grabbed his hand. “Yes you did. I’m lucky for that.” Sherlock clattered away at his email and John’s hand tightened around his shoulder, then relaxed. He paced into the kitchen, looked out the window, then came back in the sitting room, checking the lock on the door again. “Sit down, John.” Sherlock said. The doctor went into the kitchen again and opened the fridge, grabbing a container of yogurt and snarfing it down. Sherlock did a quick Google search of symptoms of Defense and brought up the NHS page on Defense. John was due his suppressant this morning and if he didn’t take it then he was likely going into Defense. Again. It was already almost one o’clock. He looked at the page.

_Irritability. Restlessness. Moodiness. Increased appetite. Dom may exhibit signs of anger and over-protectiveness, in some cases extreme. Suppressants are insisted on if the dom is going to be around others (check with your workplace regarding Defense leave) and doms are strongly encouraged to remain indoors and away from other doms they don’t know well and trust. The presence of the submissive the dom has gone into Defense over is crucial for easing the dom’s Defensive episode. Workplaces are required by law to provide Defense leave for submissives._

It went on to list common suppressant medications and blah, blah, blah not relevant. Sherlock looked over at John again, standing in the kitchen with his hands braced on the counter. Doms in Defense over him was still a novelty and Sherlock was curious. John clearly was not going to do to him what he did to Logan or Coel, but Sherlock wondered just how receptive to him John would be. One day, he would do an experiment.

“John?” He called. “Come sit by me.”

He straightened up and came into the sitting room, parking at his laptop and sipping the tea. He licked his lips. The navy blue of his eyes seemed a few shades darker and they twinkled with a predatory gleam. Sherlock slid his foot up John’s leg and the doctor responded, sliding his foot forward so they were touching. He blinked a few times and took a deep breath and Sherlock finished answering his emails before browsing the news listlessly. He didn’t feel like experimenting or bothering Graham for a case. Actually, a warm shower and a nap sounded really good right now and he was getting concerned for John. He had his face in his hands now and was taking deep breaths.

“Are you feeling it?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes.” He nodded.

“I’m going to take a shower, can you help me with bandaging after?”

“Yes.” John shot up, nearly tipping the chair over. “I’ll join you. Take some painkillers first because it’ll probably hurt after.”

Sherlock went to the kitchen, mindful of his stitches and scabs. The bandages were hot and itchy under his clothes and he was looking forward to getting everything off. He swallowed two prescription tablets with water and tiptoed to the loo. John was already in there, fiddling with the tap. Sherlock grabbed the hem of his Tshirt and tried to ease it off without catching it on any gauze—

“Let me.” John kissed him and lifted the shirt, mindful of the medical tape. He tossed it aside, then slid his sub’s trousers down. He pulled the socks off and stood before his naked sub, eying the bandages. “He hurt you.” John growled. His hands clenched and his cock stiffened. He growled and the hairs on his neck stood up.

“Yes,” Sherlock stroked his arm, “but you’re here now and I won’t be hurt anymore. Now get these off of me. I need to wash the bloody hospital away.”

John jerked his head in a nod and peeled each piece of adhesive and gauze away from Sherlock’s skin, binning them until all the healing wounds were exposed.

“Are you hurting?”

“No.” Sherlock looked down. “But the shower will probably exacerbate everything.” He ran a delicate finger across a healing slice on his ribs.

“They gave us some of the ointment, and we can get the ‘scrip filled soon.”

“Yes, John.”

The doctor yanked off his shirt and trousers, his hard cock bobbing up to full attention.

“John, I’m not really…” he nodded at the cock.

“Just a side effect of Defense. Into the shower.”

Sherlock stepped into the tub and simply let John take over. He needed this—they _both_ needed this. John got the water to a lukewarm temperature that wouldn’t hurt the healing tender skin and he soaped his sub, taking the gentlest care around the wounds. He washed Sherlock’s hair, massaging his scalp and despite everything—or maybe because of everything—Sherlock felt himself slipping down into subspace. It was sublime.

John turned the water off and patted him dry. He gave himself a cursory wipe and wrapped a terry dressing gown on.

“Are you alright, love?” John kissed him.

“Yes.”

“Go on in the bedroom. I’ll put the ointment on and then maybe you can nap?”

“Yes, John.”

Sherlock lay on the cool sheets as John smeared the ointment gel on each wound. “These are healing well.” He said. “We’ll leave them uncovered for today. You should be exposing them to air so they can dry out. If anything hurts or bleeds though—”

“—I’ll let you know.” Sherlock told him. John went to the wardrobe and grabbed for some sleep clothes for his sub.

“No.” Sherlock said, tugging the sheet over himself. “No clothes.”

John nodded and pulled off his own gown and then slid under the covers with his sub. Sherlock lay on his side where there weren’t any wounds and John tentatively rested his hand on his unmarked hip. Sherlock took a deep breath, enjoying the strong familiar scent of his dom. His cock was hard and red and his whole body was flushed and tense.

“Still?” Sherlock asked, glancing at the cock.

“I think it’s going to last a while. Ignore it.”

The sub scooted closer and snuggled into John’s neck, falling asleep in seconds.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock opened his eyes in the late afternoon, the light pale and soft on the curtains closed over his windows. His body _ached._

As if summoned, John appeared in the doorway dressed in jeans and a green shirt. He blinked, seeing his sub awake, and crossed over to the bed, crouching on the floor in front of his face.

“Hey.” He stroked his fingers through Sherlock’s curls. “There’s food if you’re hungry. I ordered you Angelo’s. His sub hostess delivered your favorites. They’re in the fridge.”

Sherlock stared at him. John’s normally dark eyes were still a few shades deeper, intense and focused on him. His lips had a touch more color to them and his gaze darted over Sherlock’s body, making notes of any lingering tension. He seemed…bigger somehow too. Like a dog bristling in the face of an attack. His scent was stronger too. Muskier. Defense in all its glory.

“No one is going to harm me, John.” Sherlock assured him. “You don’t need to be like this.”

“You’re hurt. I’m guarding you.” His voice was a little bit deeper than normal and Sherlock shivered. He was similar to how he had been at the cabin, but without the violence this time. Now all that energy was being directed at him and Sherlock found he was bit turned on just from the intensity of it.

“No one threatening will come—” Sherlock stopped speaking, listening to the faint tread of footsteps on the stairs.

“What?” John perked up and zeroed in on the doorway.

“John—”

The dom jumped up and headed for the door. Sherlock saw the gun tucked into the back of his jeans and he grabbed his phone off the side table. He recognized that tread. Too heavy for Mrs. Hudson, to measured to be Lestrade. He sent a text to Mycroft:

_Be wary, brother, John is off the suppressant and he’s armed. -SH_

 “Get out.” John growled at the startled elder Holmes brother who, seconds ago, had stepped into their flat. Usually John was the one telling Sherlock to be more polite, but this time was clearly an exception. Mycroft’s phone buzzed and he took it out of his pocket, reading the text Sherlock had just sent him. Ah.

“John, I’ve just come to see how he is.” Mycroft held up placating hands. John was blocking the hallway, one hand clenched in a fist and the other clutching his gun. His legs were spread and he was glaring from the shadows. Mycroft took a step forward.

“Get out, Mycroft.” John hissed.

The elder Holmes’ phone chimed again.

  _Are you insane? This time it won’t just be a punch in the face. He won’t let you past no matter what you say. Mrs. Hudson will complain about blood on the carpet. Your choice. -SH_

 Mycroft pocketed his phone.

“Fine. Later.” He left and John moved to the window, watching him get into a black car and be driven off. A couple people went into Speedy’s down below, the door jingling faintly. Satisfied, he went back to the bedroom.

“The gun, John? Really?” He looked more vaguely disappointed than anything.

“Yes.” John growled. He set it on the bedside table and crawled between the sheets, keeping himself between Sherlock and the doorway. Sherlock snuggled up to him, careful of his cuts, resting his head on John’s shoulder.

“Mine.” John grunted.

“Yours.” Sherlock kissed his nose.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock didn’t remember falling asleep, but he was awoken sometime later by the press of his bladder. He stood up, John instantly popping awake beside him. “What?” He asked, glancing around frantically. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh do relax.” Sherlock mumbled, irritated at the sudden shot of pain that lanced through his ribs.

“Loo?” John asked.

“Mm.”

“Let me help.”

“I’m fine.”

John stood up anyway, watching carefully as Sherlock hobbled to the toilet, the warm bedsheet wrapped around his body and dragging behind. John’s phone bleeped and he thumbed it. A text from Greg.

_Hey, how’s Sherlock? —GL_

 John bristled at the words. What the hell did this damn dom care? Sherlock was his and his alone. He owed the DI nothing at all, he was just a threat, sniffing around to try and take what was his.

_Why? —JW_

He stabbed out the blunt text and sent it.

_Because I’m concerned? Everything ok there? —GL_

 Sherlock came out of the toilet, looking exhausted and John forgot all about the phone. “You’re due another round of meds.”

“Good. I feel awful.”

John went to the kitchen, where he had left Sherlock’s pills on the table. His sub padded after.

“Wait for me in bed.” John told him in a soft voice as he tapped two white pills out of the bottle.

“I can’t lay in that infernal room all day.” Sherlock muttered. He wrapped sheet covered arms around John from behind, knowing that his presence would be soothing to him. The gun stuck in the back of his jeans rubbed Sherlock’s belly.

“The gun, John? Still?”

“Yep.”

“How long are you going to be in Defense? Are you going to kill anyone who comes to the door?”

“No promises.” He muttered. He turned to the sink to pour water and Sherlock let him go.

“Let Mrs. Hudson in if she’s bringing milk.” He said. “As far as I’m concerned, you can tell Mycroft to get out anytime you want.”

John smirked. “Deal. Here.” He handed him the pills and water. Mrs. Hudson was a sub anyway. Not a threat. Sherlock went into the sitting room, his posture tight and tense as he eased into the chair at the desk and opened his laptop. He’d put a note up on his website stating that he’d been injured on an investigation and that everything was on hold until further notice. He didn’t want a stranger coming to the door while John was like this. The sheet slipped off a bare shoulder, revealing the scabbing brutal dark cuts on his fair skin. The doctor wandered into the room with a bowl of reheated ravioli that looked fantastic and smelled like heaven. “I’m fine.” He said to John’s unspoken concerns. “If I get tired, back to bed with me.”

“You’re damn right.” He kissed him on the head, then snarled as the doorbell rang.

“Leave it.” Sherlock said.

John strode to the window and looked down at the pavement. “Lestrade.” He said. An alarm bell went off in his head. First Mycroft intruded and now Lestrade? What was with these damn doms coming onto their territory? John heard Mrs. Hudson’s voice, then Lestrade was coming in downstairs.

“John—” Sherlock said as the doctor whirled towards the door and threw it open. “Christ, you’re like a wild animal.”

“Sherlock, get in the bedroom.” John snapped.

The sub sighed and stood up, carefully, but he didn’t go to the bedroom. He didn’t know exactly what he was dealing with here. Defense was new territory for him and if he wasn’t so lethargic and bored from these pills, he’d be doing all kinds of experiments on John’s altered mental state. The opportunity that was slipping through his grasp was annoying enough, but all their acquaintances popping ‘round was just infuriating. He came to John’s side and rubbed his hand up and down his dom’s back in a soothing motion. John relaxed slightly and Greg jumped up the first set of steps into view. Instantly John tensed and Sherlock could swear he heard him actually growling low in his throat.

“Lestrade.” Sherlock cut off anything John or the DI could say. “John is still in Defense.” He sounded vaguely apologetic and the officer froze on the stairs.

“I’ll come back later.” He said, turning away. “I just wanted to see how you were—I meant no harm.” He turned away, hunching his shoulders and lifting his hands before taking his leave. John relaxed once the door downstairs closed.

“You’re going to feel like a tit once you come out of this.” Sherlock told him. John stood there breathing hard, riled from both Greg’s and Mycroft’s presences today in their flat.

“If one more dominant arsehole comes into this flat today I don’t care _who_ the hell it is, I’m going to fucking shoot them!” He snapped, staring down the steps. His hands clenched into fists and he was breathing hard.

“No you won’t.” Sherlock melted against him like water and kissed the top of his head.

“How do you know?”

“Because I’m asking you not to, and I’m your submissive.”

Some of the tension bled out of John’s shoulders and he turned away from the stairs to face him. “Yes, you are.” He kissed him on the lips.

Sherlock’s phone chimed in the bedroom and he reluctantly pulled away fand went to the bedroom to grab it. His dom followed, instinctively guarding his sub’s back. The text was from Lestrade.

  _I was just seeing how you were, honest! —GL_

_It’s fine. I’m fine. Tired. — SH_

_I know this is crass timing, but I need your statement. Both your statements. This is a high profile case and my boss wants it gone. —GL_

_Fine. When John is better, I’ll call you. —SH_

 He put his phone down and noticed warm hands stroking insistently over his bum. “Do you want to have sex?” Sherlock asked, turning around and hugging him close again. “I could probably manage for a bit…”

“No.” John said. “I’m not fucking you when I’m in Defense. Not when you’re injured. It would be too rough.”

Sherlock was quiet, remembering the conversation they had about him penetrating his dom…

“And it wouldn’t be enjoyable for me if you were to fuck me now either.”

“Oh.” Sherlock licked his lips, mildly disappointed. “I understand.”

John took a deep, shaking breath. “I’m so glad you’re alive, Sherlock.” He hugged him tight. “Christ, I love you so much.”

Sherlock bit his lip. He didn’t know how to say what he was feeling. _Thinking of you was the only way I found strength. I knew you were coming and I knew things would be fine. It all sounded pathetic in his head._ “I love you, John.” He settled his cheek on the top of his dom’s head and they simply stood there, breathing together.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for all the kudos and comments and kind words! This fic will be wrapping up soon (eep!) and you've all made it a really fun experience :)


	28. Testimony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock recovers and they both give their statements regarding the case. John has a big surprise for his sub.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! The final chapter. Thank you so much to everyone, I'm really grateful for all your support and encouragement. There's more notes at the end of the fic.

  _10th July_

_John is in Defense. Initially I found this attractive and interesting—the potential for experimentation was endless, but now it’s getting to be just a touch irritating. John’s Defense has petered out into a sort of annoying hovering. He’s only letting Mrs. Hudson into the flat, which by and large is just fine (if she brings biscuits and tea and not inane chatter) but, being his submissive, that means that for over five days now I have been the focus of every moment of my dominant’s waking hours. Government mandated Defense leave—save the population but Sherlock Holmes suffers. I blame Mycroft._

_I’ve sent John out on the crap excuse that I craved Jaffa Cakes or some nonsense, just for the solitude. He was happy to oblige, but he’ll be back soon. Dom that he is, he insisted on plugging my arse before he left._

Sherlock squirmed in the seat, the silicone firm and solid inside of him.

  _I knew I shouldn’t have asked whether he was my housekeeper or my dominant. John is in Defense because of a case that took an unexpected turn. I ended up in hospital—none of the detail on that really matters. The murderer was caught. Lestrade is happy. I can close the case, and John—_

“Love?” John pushed into the flat with two bulging plastic bags. “I didn’t know what flavor you wanted so I just bought everything they had.” He dumped the bags on the counter.

  _—John can enjoy his biscuits. Cakes? Biscuits._

“How are you feeling?” John came over to the desk and kissed his forehead and Sherlock smiled softly.

“Fine. Better.”

John put a plate on the table, piled with orange, strawberry, lemon-lime, and blackcurrant tiny cakes. Sherlock selected a strawberry one and bit into it, then eyed the spilling plastic bags in the kitchen. Only forty bazillion more to eat.

“Is your Defense over?” He asked, saving the document and closing it. The doctor had lost the ‘angry badass predator’ look he had going on before, and now he just looked like his normal army doctor, contradictions and light-focusing abilities and all, in a jumper.

“Mostly. Sick of me?” John teased.

“Aren’t you sick of clucking about the place like a hen?”

“Did you just call me a _hen?”_

“Yes.”

“That plug clearly wasn’t big enough, you cheeky thing. Get up.”

Sherlock popped to his feet, grinning.

“Bend over.” John swatted his arse and Sherlock bent over the table, spreading his legs wide and lifting his bottom. “Good boy. Not so naughty after all.” He slipped Sherlock’s sweats down to just below his bum and tapped the black plug sticking out of him. Sherlock hummed and John pumped the silicone. “Are you nice and loose for my cock?” John asked, twisting the plug around.

“Yes!” Sherlock scrabbled on the desk and clenched his arse muscles.

“Relax. I’m taking it out.” He slipped it out carefully and set it aside, then shoved his own jeans and pants down. His cock was already hard and ready and John glanced around belatedly for lube.

“I’m loose enough.” Sherlock said, resting his head happily on his forearms. “There’s already lube there.”

John didn’t need anymore urging. He gripped Sherlock’s waist and slid inside, both men groaning as he rocked closer and seated himself, thrusting in and out. “You’re my cheeky boy.” John grunted. He reached down and fondled Sherlock’s cock and the detective shuddered.

“Faster, John.”

The doctor smacked his hip. “Hush. I’m gonna—”

_Knock-knock!_

Both men froze. “Hoo-hoo. Boys?” Mrs. Hudson called from the other side of the door. “Are you decent?

“ _Shit.”_ John spat in a loud whisper.

“Impeccable timing, that one.” Sherlock growled. “One second, Mrs. Hudson!”

John eased out of him and grabbed the plug and Sherlock stood, hiking his sweatpants up. He grabbed his dressing gown and threw it on to hide his erection and John buttoned up and trotted to the loo to toss the plug in the sink.

Sherlock cinched his gown and opened the door.

“Is it safe?” She asked, glancing around for John. “Is he still in Defense?”

“It’s safe.” Sherlock said, amused that she had more or less nearly caught them.

“Oh good. I didn’t want to antagonize him, you know? But I’ve got a gift for you both.” She passed him a basket with the words Fortnum and Mason stamped across the weave. Surprised, Sherlock set it on the table and opened it up. There were some cheeses and truffles, also some elegantly iced biscuits and fancy Indian teas.

“Thank you.” Sherlock said sincerely, eying the variety of treats. “Their biscuits are brilliant.”

“You’re very welcome, dear. Are you healing up alright?”

“Yes, John’s taking care of me. Tea?” He stepped aside and gestured her in.

“Oh no dear, I interrupted you both, I can tell.”

Sherlock’s face reddened. “No, we, we were—”

“—having sex, dear. I apologize for that. In the future,” she lowered her voice as if anyone would overhear and be scandalized, “you can just tell me to bugger off while you, well, get buggered.” She laughed at her own joke and squeezed his hand and Sherlock’s mouth dropped open. “Say hello to John for me and don’t be a stranger.” She kissed his cheek and went down the steps. Sherlock stood there for a few moments and pushed the door closed with his foot.

“John!” He called.

“Is it safe?” John crept down the hallway. “If she saw me,” he gestured to his still straining cock, “it would be obvious that we were at it.”

“Oh she knows.”

John froze. “She does?”

“Oh yes.”

Both men looked down at the basket of delicious things.

“She’s too good to us.” John said.

“Yes, but I believe you were in the middle of something, Doctor.” Sherlock pressed up against John and he grinned, squeezing his arse.

“Come with me.” John pulled him into the bedroom and untied his gown. “Take that off. Get on your knees.”

Sherlock obeyed. He tossed the gown on the chair and dropped to the floor, watching him go to the wardrobe and grab his box of fun and put it on the bed. Sherlock licked his lips. His cock jerked hopefully in a sort of Pavlovian response to the sight of the box.

“Hm….” John opened the lid and eyed the items inside, tapping one finger against his lips in thought. “What can I do to you? We could try the tighter nipple clamps, the adjustable ones. Or I could cuff your wrists and tease you ‘til you scream…” He examined his items. Sherlock’s wrists were still tender from being tied with Logan’s rope, so cuffs were out. He wanted to avoid his wounds too, obviously, so pretty much everything on the torso was out. Nothing at was wrong with his cock or bum though. He looked up and saw his sub watching him with eager, lusty eyes. He smiled and removed a thin length of silky cord and a single black satin and lace glove and closed the box. He pulled the blankets down and fluffed all four pillows and piled them against the headboard.

“Up on the bed, love. Grab the headboard.” He moved his box to the floor and Sherlock jumped up. He lay carefully on his back in the pillows and put his arms over his head, holding tight to the wooden board. He spread his legs. John tugged off all his clothes and knelt up on the bed between his legs with the rope and some lube. John stared down at his submissive, his eyes warm with love. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and wiggled his hips. “Well, Captain Watson. You have me at your mercy.”

John grinned and then for some stupid reason felt a little bit like crying. Over these past four months, Sherlock had built him up out of a pit of depression and had accepted John’s request to be his submissive and now Sherlock _shone_ with joy and confidence. They both did. John’s limp hadn’t bothered him in weeks. Sherlock had mellowed out too and was far less abrasive than he’d been four months ago. John was actually happy for the first time in a long time and it was all because of Sherlock and hopefully, _hopefully_ the man would consent to one more thing as soon as John screwed up the courage to ask.

Jaffa Cakes hadn’t been the only thing he was out shopping for this morning.

“What?” Sherlock asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Nothing.” John shook out the rope. Sherlock stared at him, his deducing face slipping on. _No, don’t deduce it!_ John leaned forward and kissed him hard.

“Mph!” Sherlock blinked in surprise but melted into the kiss a moment later.

“Hold still.” John told him, pulling away.

“Yes, yes, John.” Sherlock nodded and the doctor scooted back. _Deduction diverted._ He took Sherlock’s cock firmly in his hand and jacked it slowly. He rubbed his sub’s balls and slid one finger up his crack.

Sherlock gasped and spread his knees more. John grinned, continuing his slow movements.

“If you’re in pain, tell me.”

“Yes, yes!”

John lifted off his body and grabbed the rope. He wrapped it around his balls a few times, pulling them away from his cock. He then squeezed some lube onto two fingers and slid them right up his arse.

Sherlock dropped one hand down to grab the blankets and squeeze.

“Sherlock!” John snapped. “Hands!”

He moved his hand back to the headboard and moaned, clenching his cheeks around John’s fingers.

He thumbed his sub’s tied balls and smiled at the squeaky needy sound Sherlock made. A drop of clear, glistening fluid slipped out of his cock and John swirled it around the sensitive head with a fingertip. Sherlock groaned and licked his lips, shivering in delight. John took his time. He fucked Sherlock slowly with his fingers, teasing his balls and tickling his shaft. He nudged his prostate a couple times and more fluid oozed out, accompanied buy a chorus of gasps and pants and hisses. John pulled his hands away and gave himself a few quick jacks, getting his own interested cock even happier. That done, he picked up the glove. This was a technique he learned from a former lady dominant. The black glove was made of scratchy lace and smooth, soft silk. It looked a bit unusual, but looks were often deceiving.

Sherlock watched him slide the glove over his fingers, interested confusion on his face.

“What’s that?”

“You’ll see.” John slid his bare fingers back into his body and then gave his cock a long slow pull with the glove while he pushed down on his prostate.

“Oh fuck!” Sherlock bucked up on the bed and more precum squirted out of his cock. “Oh, oh John!”

The doctor laughed and removed his hand.

Sherlock smiled weakly. “That’s, that’s…”

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” John asked.

“The scratchy and the soft—it hurts a little bit but it feels so _good_ …” He lay there panting and grinning and John rubbed the lacey edge of the glove up the underside of his cock. Again he swore and jerked up. John countered the sensation with the silk and Sherlock moaned. He teased him with the tip of a silky finger, rubbing the glans softly and using his lacey thumb to rub the base of his cock.

“Oh, I have to, I have to come, John.” He was right. His cock was red and hard as steel.

John tugged the glove off and pulled his hand out of his arse. “Can you ride me? I think that would be safest for you.”

Sherlock nodded blearily and they switched positions, half falling over each other and nearly getting tangled in the sheets in the process. John lay on his back and stuffed a pillow under his head, then grabbed the lubrication. Sherlock snatched it out of his hands, squirting it into his palms. John watched with a sharky smile as Sherlock grabbed his thick cock and greased it up in fast jerky motions. He shuddered and Sherlock threw his leg over John’s hip, reaching back to grab his cock and guide it inside before his muscles split and and he sank right down. Sherlock seated himself and shivered at the full sting of it, rocking back and forth and back and forth.

John grabbed the blankets in pleasure and Sherlock chuckled, low and deep. The stab wound on his back was starting to get a little sore, but he pressed on. He shifted back and sat deeper on the cock, rocking again with one hand braced on the bed.

“Oh God.” John groaned.

“Is it good for you? Your amazing submissive bouncing on your cock like this?” Sherlock kept moving, watching John’s face. “Your beautiful, genius sub who you’re lucky to have?”

John smiled. “You’re right about that.”

He lifted up and sank down and John grabbed his thighs and lifted his own hips to piston up into him. “Fuck, Sherlock, I want to throw you on the floor and take you from behind. I want to grind into you and fill you and make you beg for more.”

“More, John.” Sherlock rubbed his own cock furiously and John swatted his hands away, taking over.

“I want to take your arse and your pretty mouth and make you ride me until we’re both screaming.”

Sherlock jerked in John’s grip and rutted into his hand. The doctor grinned. He was so close. “I want to see you in my office, Private Holmes. I think you need an exam.”

Sherlock shivered and bucked up, bracing his hands on the mattress as he came all over his dom’s belly and chest. He was only vaguely aware of the wet heat spurting up into his body as John came inside of him seconds later. They sat there, panting, and Sherlock felt the ejaculate slip out of him. He shivered, canting his hips down to get more of John in him.

“Oh, God. There we go.” John’s tone was satisfied and he had one arm thrown lazily over his forehead. “I love you so much, Sherlock. God, sex is so easy with you.”

Sherlock smiled down at him and rubbed his palms up and down his dom’s waist. “I love you too.”

“Are you sore?”

He bit his lip. “A bit. The sweat is aggravating everything.” Sherlock grumbled. “So much for endorphins, although, I suppose I was just nearly murdered.”

“Give yourself some time, darling.” John put his hands on his hips. “Time to heal.”

* * *

An hour later, once they were bathed and dressed and presentable again, Sherlock picked up his phone. Lestrade was itchy for the statements and he admired the officer’s restraint these past few days. There hadn’t been a peep begging them to come in. He sat in John’s chair with his text thread open.

John came up behind him and rubbed his shoulder. He saw the text Greg had sent asking for their statements. Sherlock’s reply-to-text box was empty, the cursor blinking. His thumb was hovering over the keys.

“Whenever you’re ready to talk about it.” John said, squeezing his shoulder.

“Today, I suppose. It won’t be easier later.”

“Do you want me to call him and tell him?” John asked.

Sherlock did, in a childish kind of way. He didn’t say this though. “Can we take a cab?” He asked. “I don’t want, you know, people.”

“Sure, whatever you want.”

Sherlock cleared his throat and punched out a text.

  _We are willing to give statements now. We will leave B as soon as convenient. —SH_

He sent it off, then followed that with another one.

  _We’re leaving now. —SH_

He put the phone aside and stood. It chimed.

  _Is is safe? If John’s still touchy, we’ll do it later. -Lestrade_

He showed it to John. The doctor winced at the ‘is it safe.’

“See?” Sherlock said. “You do feel like a tit.”

“I was awful to him.” John said. “Do you feel up for this?”

Sherlock paused and looked out the window. He bit his lip and nodded confidently. “Of course. I’ve barely left this flat since coming back from hospital.” He stood and sent a text assuring Lestrade John would be fine. He reached for his coat.

“It’s warm out, love. I don’t think you need that.” He nodded at the Belstaff Sherlock was pulling on. It was early July, and though not _hot_ outside, it was too warm for wool.

“I want to.” Sherlock tucked it protectively around his body like a shield. “Someone might touch me.”

John let it go. He eased out of his chair, frowning at the tightness in his leg. His calf groaned from the stab wound and he gulped a pain pill with some water. Sherlock went to the bedroom and returned moments later with the leash. He clipped it to his collar and handed John the other looped end. The doctor wrapped it around his palm. They took a cab to Scotland Yard and John had his hand on Sherlock’s knee the whole time. The doctor paid and they inside, Sherlock leading the way to Lestrade’s office, the leash joining them loosely.

“Ah.” Greg glanced up as Sherlock entered the office. “Back with us? Are you feeling better?”

“Much.” Sherlock gave him a small, tight smile.

John crept in sheepishly, head tilted down, proverbial tail between his legs. Greg stiffened, glancing him over, assessing to see how intense the Defense was.

“Sorry, Greg.” Was the first thing John said. He looked away. “I was an arse to you before.”

The DI smiled, breaking apart the tension in the room, and rose, beckoning him forward. The doms shook hands and John apologized profusely again. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Don’t mention it.” Greg said. “I wouldn’t have come if I’d known it was still so strong. You could have just told me over text.”

“Wasn’t thinking right.” John shrugged. “I just saw you as a threat.”

“The worst of it lasted five days.” Sherlock said.

Lestrade’s eyes bugged out. “ _Five days?!_ Longest I’ve ever been in it was thirty six hours!”

John shrugged and tried not to laugh.

“Because apparently I’m hopeless at defending _myself…_ ” Sherlock muttered.

“That’s not what I’m implying, love.” John said.

“I know.”

“Are you up to talking for a bit?” Greg asked the detective, pulling a small black recorder out of his desk drawer. Donovan slipped into his office then, a pad of yellow paper and a pen in her hands. She gave Sherlock the tiniest smile. “Recovery going well?”

“Yes, thanks.” He said. “I, we, can talk.”

Lestrade brought them all to a small conference room with a bright window that overlooked the city. A round wooden table had four comfy office chairs around it. Lestrade took a few bottles of water out of a tiny fridge in the corner. He set them on the table and Donovan closed the door. Sherlock sat, still in his coat, and John sat beside him. The officers settled across from them and Lestrade put the recorder on the table.

“Whenever you’re ready.” Greg murmured, turning the machine on. A little red light popped on. “If you need to take a break or anything, just say so.”

So Sherlock began, starting from the point he put the case pieces together after Mike and Betsy came over for dinner. He took them through _Page Two_ and the loo, then waking up in the cabin. Sally jotted notes and Lestrade simply listened. Sherlock cracked open his water once he got to the bit about the knives. He detailed every word that Logan had said to him about his dead sub and the cancer. John took his hand, wanting to kill Logan all over again as Sherlock spoke in clinical terms about how the incisions were made to bleed a lot rather than cause pain. To weaken but not kill. Yet.

“Logan wanted to be sure I was comfortable.” Sherlock said. “I was cold, towards the end, and he saw me shivering and added kindling to the fire. He brought me water too. It was at odds with the fact that he’d been using me as a whetstone since I’d arrived. Maybe he thought he’d been remiss in his hospitality,” he added dryly, sipping the water. “I awoke in hospital with John and Mycroft.”

John squeezed his hand and Lestrade sat back in his chair. “John?” He asked, writing notes, “do you have anything to add?”

John talked about heading back to the toilets in the restaurant to search. “The rest you know.” John said. “After that, we were together.”

Greg nodded.

“Why?” John asked Greg. “Why did he do all this? Why kill all those subs?” He glanced at Sherlock. “Did he just…snap?”

Lestrade cleared his throat and began fiddling with a bottle cap. “We’ve been speaking to family and friends, putting the pieces together. Logan’s sub was named Anthony Bailey. Anthony came from a very wealthy family. Old money. He wanted to marry Logan but the family didn’t approve. Anthony was diagnosed with cancer in December. Terminal. He only had months to live. He put his fiance—Logan—in his will to get his entire share of what would be his family’s inheritance. Money, his belongings, that cabin, his cars—everything basically. Well, mum and dad didn’t approve of that move at all. They forced Anthony to cut Logan out of will, saying that Logan was just ‘some fry cook’ and not good enough for their son.”

“Fry cook?” John repeated. “At _Page Two?_ That place has Michelin Stars!”

Greg shrugged. “Not good enough for the Baileys’. Logan’s in a maximum security hospital and being assessed by a psych team. We don’t have an official diagnosis for him yet.”

“So the bloke loses his sub in every sense and goes off the deep end.” John summarized.

“He was killing other submissives before their fictional cancer could.” Sherlock murmured, looking at his dom. “That’s what he meant about saving you. He assumed that I and all his other victims would get sick and die and their deaths would hurt their doms like Anthony’s death hurt him.” Sherlock was slumped down a little in his chair, his face pale. He looked up at Lestrade. “I’m assuming Anthony was the original ‘type’ for this case? White, male, under age 35, submissive.”

“Yes.” Lestrade said.

Sherlock sighed and rubbed his head.

“Sentiment?” John teased with a little smile on his face.

The side of Sherlock’s mouth went up in a grin. “Sentiment.” He swigged more water and rubbed his temple.

John scooted closer to his sub and lifted their clasped hands to place a quick kiss on the back of Sherlock’s. “Tired?” He asked.

“I’m fine. What’ll happen to Logan?” He asked Lestrade.

“Prison. He admitted easily to killing the subs, but he was trying to convince us that what he was doing was correct. He’s completely sure that he was doing the right thing by killing them. With yours and Michael Jenkins’ testimonies, plus this other information we have, he’ll go to prison for a long time. The other victims we found, the body parts…” Greg shrugged. “Logan had to get rid of the bodies somehow. With Jazz he had no idea what he was doing and figured the binmen would pick up the trash and no one would be any wiser. Owen he killed and dumped in the river. We raided his house and found a list of potential targets.” Greg tossed the cap down.

“Names?” John asked.

“No, he had written down locations where he had seen subs he wanted to target. He would observe the subs and learn their routines, then attack.”

They were all silent for a moment. There was a burst of laughter out in the office.

“How was Jenkins kidnapped?” John asked. “Did he go to the restaurant too? He had Rohypnol in his system but him and Blair never mentioned eating at _Page Two._ ”

Donovan spoke. “The same day he got captured, Jenkins had purchased a coffee from a street vendor. I guess this was something he did regularly and Logan paid the vendor to spike it. He’s in custody as well.”

“He kidnapped Jazz. He overdosed Owen, and thanks to Jenkins’ over active thyroid, he survived.” Sherlock mused.

“You did too.” John said. “You survived.” He was squeezing Sherlock’s hand hard and the detective placed his other hand on top of John’s.

“I did. You saved me.”

“Do you need anything else?” John asked, glancing at the officers.

“Nope.” Greg and Donovan stood up. “If we do, I’ll let you know.” Greg said.

“Thanks, Greg.” John gave him a small smile, nodded to Donovan, then turned all his attention to Sherlock. They ambled down the hall and out of sight and the officers watched them go.

“They’re good together.” Sally said.

Greg nodded, feeling immensely proud of both of them.

* * *

“I’m famished.” John said when they were on the pavement. “We used a lot of energy today.” He winked.

Sherlock smiled faintly.

“Are you okay?” John asked.

“Yes.” Sherlock tucked his coat close.

“Do you need to go down?”

“Yes.”

“Are you just worn out from talking about…everything?”

“Yes.”

“Are you in pain?”

“No, not really.”

“Do you want to eat first? You can choose. My treat.” John said. “And this time there won’t be a nutter after you.”

Sherlock _was_ hungry. He thought for a moment, consulting with his stomach, then, “do you want _Kyoto Tower?”_

“Sushi? Gladly, love.”

They sat towards the back of the restaurant by the tropical fishtank. Sherlock slid into one side of the booth and to John’s surprise, pulled him down on the same side with him, only taking off his coat when John was looking at the menu, acting as a shield between him and the rest of the world. They each ordered miso soup and maki.

“Is this okay?” John asked. “Do you want to eat at home?”

“This is fine.” Sherlock broke apart his chopsticks. John passed the time as they waited for their food trying to make his sub laugh. Sherlock grinned a few times and rested his cheek on John’s shoulder.

“I love you, John.” He sighed. The doctor froze. Sherlock didn’t say the L-word very much. Not unprompted. He always said it back to John, but it was rare that he’d say so himself first.

“I love you too, sweetheart.” John kissed the top of his head. Tonight. He would ask tonight. If they had survived this case they could survive anything together. And when times got tough, well, they had an armada of people on their side to help them through it. Mike, Betsy, Mycroft, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson. Subs and doms, old friends and new. John nodded to himself. Tonight.

The waitress brought them green tea in a metal pot and delicate little yellow porcelain cups. Their food came a few minutes later and they both tucked in with chopsticks, not really speaking much until every grain of rice was gone. John accepted the bill and tried not to melt as Sherlock buried his face in his shoulder, very much done with the entire planet.

“Alright.” John soothed, signing the receipt. “We’ll go home and you can settle.”

They left the restaurant, the previously sunny sky turning grey with a coming rain. The air got humid and thick and they caught a cab back to the flat. Sherlock paid the driver and they tumbled into the sitting room just as the rain started to lash the windows. John kissed him playfully and squeezed his bottom and Sherlock shied away with a smile. John dropped the leash and watched him crouch to start a fire and a flock of butterflies swooped around his stomach.

 _Do you really think he’ll say no, Watson?_ John turned on his heel and marched to the bedroom. He opened his toy box and extracted the little black velvet jewelry case he’d hidden in there. He opened it, staring at the platinum band set in the dark velvet. Shining, chrome-like silver was offset by a more matte, brushed silver. John quite liked it. It had a tiny bit of flash but was understated and masculine. He pulled his own out of his pocket. The rings were identical. Some doms and subs had differing rings, perhaps a thinner or wider band, or maybe a gemstone or two. John wanted theirs to be the same. Equal. He stood up and slipped his ring into his pocket with shaking fingers. He dropped the box and it tumbled over the bedsheets. He swore and snatched it up.

“John?” Sherlock wandered into the bedroom, sans coat and leash. The collar still graced his throat and he had such a wonderful _submissiveness_ about him that John couldn’t quite place but that he loved immensely. “What are you doing?” He saw the toy box on the floor and grinned. “Devising new tortures for me?” He teased.

John didn’t smile. He felt positively sick at the thought of proposing. His heart was actually slamming into his chest and the sound was thuddy and echoing in his ears. What on earth had he been thinking? What if Sherlock said no? The fish was slimy in his stomach and he gulped. _Now or never._

“John?” Sherlock blinked at him and came closer. He took his hands, looking concerned. “Was it the sushi?”

John laughed, high-pitched and nervous. He wished it was something as simple as the sushi.

“It’s not the sushi.” His voice was shaking and Sherlock blinked in surprise at him. John dropped down to one knee and reached into his pocket, smiling at Sherlock’s intake of breath.

John looked up at him and opened up the little box, baring his raw soul to the man. “William Sherlock Scott Holmes, will you marry me?”

Sherlock stared at him, his mouth open in what John hoped was amazed joy.

He said nothing.

John chewed his lower lip, watching Sherlock blink.

Still nothing.

He raised his brows. “Sherlock?”

“Ah!” He exhaled fast, “yes! Yes, I will, John.”

“Phew.” John smiled weakly and willed his heart to please stop trying to escape through his chest, thanks. He stood and slid the band onto his sub’s left ring finger.

“Oh John.” Sherlock admired the band. His eyes were red and wet and he couldn’t stop staring at it.

“Do you like it? I picked it without you—I know we picked the collar together but I wanted this to be a surprise and it was hard enough keeping you from deducing it.”

“I love it.” Sherlock murmured. John pulled his own ring out of his pocket. Sherlock beckoned for it and John passed it over. He smiled, his eyes welling when Sherlock slid it onto his ring finger, simultaneously kissing his forehead. “What does your dom ring look like?” Sherlock looked at John’s hand and cocked his head at the identical band on his finger.

“I wanted them to be the same.” He said. “Because we’re the same, in this. In marriage. Partners.” Suddenly it sounded insanely cheesy. “I guess…” He muttered.

Sherlock seemed to be fine with it. He kissed John on the lips, long and slow and then took his hand, bringing him out to the sitting room. He fiddled with the band and glanced around and John knew the warm, hazy look of subspace when he saw it.

“Sh, come on, love. Take your clothes off and we can settle, alright?”

“Yes.” Sherlock sniffed. “Yes.” He stripped and John went to get them both something to drink He was unable to keep the crazy grin off his face. Sherlock said yes! Sherlock said yes!

He was already naked by the fire and clutching a pillow when John came in, his clothes flung all over the floor. He stared at the ring, amazed. He never would have ever dreamed that _anyone_ would want to date him, much less propose. But John had and the Gordian Knot of confused feelings was gone for good. John had unraveled it. God, he needed to make an entry about this…

“One second…” John put the glasses down and grabbed the leash. He faced his chair to the telly and grabbed his book off the desk. Sherlock would likely need a lot of settling time. Hell, they both would. This had been a really big day.

John sat and Sherlock dropped beside him. “Do you want the leash?” John held up the clip and Sherlock nodded. It was odd to hear him not speak, especially after the manic buzz of the case. The quiet was unusually nice and John knew his soon to be husband was just mellow now that the case was solved and done with. He clipped the leash to the little silver ring on his collar and gulped. This was what he’d fantasized about three months prior when he was alone in his little dark bedsit and imagining the brilliant detective in a collar and leash. He hadn’t thought for a second that Sherlock would be his fiance by now though. He looked even better than John had imagined and his dominance roared happily. He leaned down for a kiss. “You’re amazing, Sherlock. I,” he swallowed. “Thank you.”

The detective’s face heated and he glanced away.

“Because of you, Logan is behind bars.”

“Don’t sell yourself short.” Sherlock mumbled. “I would never agree to marry an idiot. You remembered what Jenkins said in hospital, about the moonlit dirt road—the lack of trees, the pebbles. That narrowed down the roads they searched on.”

“Not by much.”

“You don’t know that.” He nuzzled his thigh and sighed deeply, eyes fluttering closed. “I knew you’d find me. I knew you’d save my life.”

“Just returning the favor, sweetheart.” John ran fingers through his curls and opened his book.

* * *

A month later, Sherlock was just about completely healed. His angry crimson cuts faded to pink lines and then the smallest of them disappeared. Sherlock was so fair skinned that the faint scars would take a long time to dissolve but until then, he was back to his charming self. John came home from his shift at the clinic to find his fiance pacing in and out of the sitting room, his red dressing gown flapping around him like disgruntled wings. The stench of vinegar and old shoe leather made John wrinkle his nose.

“What are you doing?” He asked.

“Experiment…” He muttered. An elaborate glass chemistry apparatus was set up on the table. The skull was beside it, wearing an eye patch for some reason. John made some coffee. The ‘Mad scientist’ version of his sub was back, and gone was the post-case quiet adorable one.

“Oh God!” Sherlock shouted and pounded both fists into the table, making the glass pipes jangle dangerously and the skull nearly tilt over.

John startled and coffee sloshed. “What is going on?” He snipped.

“This bloody experiment!”

“Forget the experiment.” John wiped up the spilled coffee.

“I can’t just ‘forget the experiment,’ John! You can’t forget science!”

John crept up to him and kissed his cheek. “Get in the bedroom and I’ll make you forget your own name, darling.” He squeezed Sherlock’s hip.

“I’m unlikely to forget it, John, seeing as it’s recently changed.”

John smiled at him. “Sherlock Watson-Holmes.” He said, enjoying the taste of that.

“John Watson-Holmes.” Sherlock shot back.

“We need to tidy this place up for tomorrow.” John hugged him and they both glanced at the messy sitting room.

They had told Mycroft and Harry about the engagement, as well as all their friends. Mike and Betsy of course were thrilled and excited for them. Betsy had cried. Lestrade was overjoyed and Molly shrieked at the news. Mrs. Hudson hadn’t stopped smiling and she promised to bake them a cake and a massive meal to celebrate. Mycroft and Mike were witnesses at the register office when they signed the papers that said they were now an official couple. John wore the smart blue Hugo Boss suit at Sherlock’s bidding and the detective wore a tailored Dolce & Gabbana number that did amazing things for his curves. Mike gave them both a hug when they signed and Mycroft congratulated them, sneaking a glance at his pocket watch.

This Saturday—tomorrow—they were having a party of sorts at the flat, or as Sherlock called it, an ‘obligatory gathering.’ The flat needed a hoovering and a dusting, badly. They hadn’t done much lately but stay in and watch crap telly when John was off work and just _be_ with each other in safety and peace. The next insane case would come along soon enough and throw their lives into chaos again.

Sherlock rested his head on John’s, thinking. “Will you be okay with this?” He asked. _Will you want to be a dom forever? What if you get sick of it?_

John looked up at him. “With what? This weekend?”

“No, with _us_ the way we are.”

“Keep going.” John prompted.

“You’ve just signed up to be a dominant for better or for worse, for as long as we live.”

“I’ll be fine. Don’t you worry about _that.”_

“If you want to switch again, I could.” Sherlock blurted.

“Thank you. I will probably take you up on that.”

Sherlock still looked worried. John let out a small sigh and walked towards the bedroom, one finger crooked in a command to ‘follow’. Sherlock did, eagerly. John was already pulling his box out when he arrived.

“You’re worried.” John said bluntly. “You’re worried that I’ll get bored with being a dom all the time, correct?”

Sherlock didn’t dignify John’s deduction with an answer.

“Well, you’re wrong.” He pulled a plug out of the box, smallish, and lube. He coated the plug liberally. “I’m going to prove that you’re wrong.” To Sherlock’s surprise, he handed the plug over. “Hold this, please.” He unbuckled his own belt and pushed everything down and off. He unbuttoned his shirt and threw it on the chair in the corner.

“I hope you’re still interested in fucking me.” John said, standing there naked. Sherlock’s eyes widened and he nodded. “Excellent. It’s been a while, you know that, so I’ll need the plug first. Can you put it in?”

“Yes.” Sherlock nodded confidently. He sat on the edge of the bed, holding the base of the glass plug in his fingertips. John got over his thighs and Sherlock licked his lips. He petted John’s back and bum, rubbing and stroking just like John did. He set the plug carefully on the side table and squeezed some lube onto his fingers, then smeared them gently through his dom’s cheeks. He squirmed and unsurprisingly, he was tight. Sherlock rubbed his back and rubbed his hole, delightfully anticipating what was to come. He was going to penetrate his dom! Finally—for the first time. John hummed and Sherlock wriggled a finger inside, slipping it in and out. John relaxed after that and he pushed another one in, sliding deeper. He found the sweet spot and pushed. John hummed again. “Excellent, love.”

Sherlock reached for the plug and pulled a cheek aside. He pushed it in, knowing from his own experience how much pressure to apply. The thing slid right in and stayed there.

“Okay?” Sherlock asked.

“Perfect.” John stood up, a big smile on his face. He rubbed his jaw. “Take your clothes off.” He commanded. “All of them.”

He did, tossing everything onto the chair. John turned his sub so his back was to the wall. He then got carefully down to his knees and grabbed Sherlock’s hips, easing his mouth over his cock.

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed and he sank against the wall, leaning his head back as the beautiful heat enveloped his cock.

“Ah, ah.” John patted his hip and Sherlock looked down at him, making direct eye contact. John stared up at him as he bobbed slowly back and forth and Sherlock blinked in a kind of wonder. Everything in the world zeroed in on this man on his knees before him. John. His John. His gentle, dominant partner that once put a bullet through a man’s head to save him and could coax his not-always-willing body to heights of glorious ecstasy with just a few well-placed touches.

John slipped off of his cock and licked his own fingers, then pulled Sherlock forward a bit and wriggled the wet fingers between his arse cheeks. He put his lips back around his cock and Sherlock moaned, stepping his feet apart as John slipped easily into his hole and found his prostate.

“Oh, oh God…” Sherlock grabbed John’s hair as pleasure jolted through his hips in sparkling waves. “I didn’t plan on this, darling.” He said. “I would have cleaned myself…”

John grinned. Sherlock hardly used pet names and it was adorable when he did. The faintest edge of submission crept in on John’s consciousness, interested in the kneeling and the sucking, and he allowed it to linger. Sherlock was willing to ‘dom’ now and then and John wanted to prove to Sherlock that they could both be satisfied with that. Sherlock was his, tonight and tomorrow and every single day. The detective gave a shallow thrust and John pushed further into his arse, nudging his prostate again. Sherlock panted, rolling his hips faster and faster until he was good and hard and ready to spill. John slipped out of his bottom and stood up, wiping his hand over his mouth. He loved Sherlock more than life itself, but giving blowjobs was not his favorite activity. The expression of bright lust in his boy’s eyes was enough to make it worth it though.

“Alright?” John said, “ready?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Do me from behind, if you don’t mind.” John said casually. He got on the bed and splayed his knees, resting on his forearms and offering himself up in complete trust. “My submissive side loves it.”

“I, okay.” Sherlock stared at his dom’s arse and his hard cock and balls and the shining glass plug. He took a deep breath and went over to him, running hands up and down his sides and bum. He took the plug and slowly pulled it out, setting it aside.

“L-loose enough?” He asked. He nudged the tip of his cock against John’s hole and the doctor made a little huffy sound.

“Yes. Is this your first time?”

“Um, yes?”

“Go at your own pace. You’re doing perfectly.”

Sherlock nodded and placed clammy hands on John’s hips, just above his iliac crest. He pushed the head of himself inside and slid forward, smiling at the happy noises his dom was making.

“Oh, God…oh I’d almost forgotten how good this feels…”

Sherlock pushed all the way in and curled his toes and just stood there, enjoying. The heat was tight and sweet around his cock and sweat dribbled down his neck and ribs. Nothing hurt anymore and he grinned.

“Is this what it feels like for you?” He breathed.

“Probably.” John said, laughing.

“Oh…” Sherlock pulled out, then slid back in. He lay carefully over John’s back and reached around to grab his cock. Everything felt good. Everything _was_ good.

“Faster.” John prompted. Sherlock leaned up a bit and thrust in and out of his dom, finding the rhythm and just enjoying himself. He liked this, but he was still pretty sure that he preferred being on the bottom, so to speak. He looked down at John’s head.

“Okay?” He asked.

“Yeah, oh yeah.” He rocked back as Sherlock thrust forward and the detective picked up the pace. He let himself go and slammed into John, grinding his hips against his cheeks. He was ready to pop.

“I see why you prefer fucking a spanked arse.” He muttered. He swatted John’s hip to prove his point and he giggled into the blankets. “This is fantastic, John, I think I’m—oh!” His orgasm ripped through him, making his thighs and bum tingle as the pleasure fizzed through his groin. John came at the same time and the feeling of John’s body clenching around his cock was exquisite. He could definitely do this again. He pumped into John a few more times and stood there panting and smiling.

“Okay?” John mumbled.

“Mm-hm.” Sherlock slid out and shivered and John stumbled to his feet.

“Sh…good boy.” John soothed. “I’ve got you. Let’s have a shower and some sleep, yeah? We’re going to be busy tomorrow.”

They did just that, and the next morning Sherlock was awoken by warm hands rolling him onto his belly and groping at his thighs. He wasn’t surprised. John had been especially dominant right after the last time he’d subbed, and Sherlock knew he needed to regain that dominant head space. He spread his knees and lifted his bum obligingly and was greeted with John’s insistent fingers working him open, followed by the full pressure of his cock. Sherlock grunted into the pillow as John held him down with a hand on his scruff, taking him fast and hard. It stung a bit and he smiled and squeezed the pillow, whimpering softly into the bed as his husband and dominant fucked him. John leaned over him, still thrusting, and nibbled his shoulder, lapping the area before he bit down and humped furiously, spilling inside. Sherlock pressed his face into the cotton, exposing his neck as he waited for John’s commands.

“Good morning, love.” John whispered. “I’m going to make us breakfast.”

Sherlock nodded.

“Clean up and meet me in the kitchen.”

John got off of him and Sherlock rose, picking up his gown and sliding it on. His dom was already dressed and Sherlock wondered how long he had been up. He went into the bathroom and washed and cleaned his teeth, then padded into the kitchen. The doctor clipped the lead to his collar and pulled out eggs and bacon and put the coffee on, all with the leash loop around his wrist. Sherlock followed him around the kitchen, his gown cinched tight to keep off the morning chill. The flat was soon filled with the scents of sizzling bacon and eggs and hearty coffee.

“Make us toast, please.” John let the leash drop and Sherlock obediently made two pieces, putting a jam jar on the table—courtesy of the Mrs. Hudson basket. He laid the table as well and John put the cooked food down. “Are you looking forward to today?” He asked as they both sat down, gingerly. It felt good to be sore. John made a mental note to have Sherlock top more often in the future.

“I, think so.” Sherlock said.

“Betsy is coming by to help Mrs. Hudson. They’re finally going to meet.” John took a bite of bacon. “I told them they didn’t have to cook, but you know.”

“Why do we need to have a party at all?” Sherlock groused

“Because that’s what people do when they get married.” John told him. “They celebrate.”

“Every day has been a celebration since I met you.” Sherlock said quietly.

That brought up a syrupy smile on John’s face. “Just a few people. The ones you can tolerate.”

“People.” He muttered.

“Oh yeah,” John sighed. “You hate people in your flat.”

“ _Our_ flat. It’s _ours._ ”

“Yes it is.”

Betsy rang the doorbell an hour later, hugging John hello. He brought her Mrs. Hudson’s door and knocked once before letting himself in. It smelled of sugar and roasting meats and butter and onion and so much good food. He’d told them that they didn’t have to cook and he and Sherlock would be more than happy to cater (surely Angelo would be thrilled), but they insisted and told him not to worry. He didn’t protest too much. Whatever they made, it was bound to be amazing.

“Mrs. Hudson? I’d like you to meet Betsy Hannigan. She and Mike introduced Sherlock and me.”

“Hello Mrs. Hudson.” Betsy said, “I’ve heard so many good things about you.”

“Oh I’m so glad to finally meet you!” Mrs. Hudson hugged her and they went into the kitchen, talking a mile a minute about recipes and cooking techniques. John nodded, satisfied. He knew they’d get along.

Everyone showed up (nearly. Harry was a no show, not that John was surprised): Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Mike came later, even Mycroft. Betsy and Mrs. Hudson cooked them salmon and tuna, roasted prime rib that fell off the bone, garlic potatoes and loads of mixed vegetables. There was a big salad made with chicken and grapes and some kind of tangy dressing. A modest chocolate cake covered with white whipped cream frosting was in the center of it all, and Betsy had fashioned a very realistic black and silver fondant stethoscope draped around a white beaker spilling multicolored frosting bubbles. A plate piled with Jaffa cakes was beside that. The whole spread was beautiful. John took pictures of it all and Sherlock rolled his eyes at him. John could tell he loved it all though. Lestrade got them both a bottle of aged whiskey that made even Mycroft raise an approving brow. Mike and Betsy had brought a tiny refrigerator so Sherlock could store his more unsavory experiments away from food. John hugged them both hard.

“My experiments aren’t _that_ bad.” Sherlock muttered.

“They’re utterly disgusting, love.” John kissed him on the nose and everyone laughed.

Molly gave them a fancy bottle of wine and Mrs. Hudson gave a beautiful hand-knitted blanket as wide as the bed and sinfully soft. “How did you make it so quickly?” John asked in amazement as Sherlock ran his fingers over the powder blue yarn.

“Oh,” she waved her hand in a shooing motion, “I started that the first time John spent the night.”

Lestrade hooted in a sort of lewd delight and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“I knew you two would get married someday.” She winked and sipped her wine.

“Christ, _I_ didn’t even know then.” John murmured to him.

“Me neither. Never underestimate Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock said sagely.

Mycroft simply handed his brother a long, creamy white envelope. He opened it, frowning, and pulled out the two pieces of paper inside. John’s mouth dropped.

“Two weeks in the Seychelles?” He said, staring at the plane tickets. Betsy and Molly gasped. Mike whistled.

“Think of it as a honeymoon.” Mycroft told them.

“Mycroft, this is too much.” John stared at the tickets and shook his head. “Thank you—this is amazing.” He handed them back to Sherlock and the younger man nodded.

“Thank you, Mycroft.” He said. “Truly.”

“You’re very welcome, both of you.” He smiled.

The evening ran long and Sherlock didn’t even complain once to John about how bored he was. During dessert Mycroft lead a toast “to the happy couple.”

Guests started trickling out around midnight, piled with bags of food. Even still there was enough left to feed a football team.

“Do you want help cleaning up?” Mike asked Sherlock, wringing his hands and looking at the mess.

John was escorting a tipsy Mrs. Hudson down the stairs to A.

“Nah.” Sherlock said. “We’ll be fine. Not much to do, really. Take some food and Jaffa cakes home.” They left 221 to a chorus of ‘thank you’ and ‘good night’ and when John closed the door behind them, it was pushing 1:30 in the morning.

“Tired?” John asked.

“Not really.” Sherlock shrugged.

“Me neither.” They went back upstairs and John whimpered at the mess of glasses and dishes in the kitchen.

“Leave it for tomorrow.” Sherlock told him, closing the pocket doors so they wouldn’t have to see it.

John laughed. “That’s one way to do it.”

“If you don’t see the mess, then there’s not a mess.” Sherlock said. He picked up some half full glasses off the mantle and coffee table and consolidated them all to the desk.

“Schrodinger’s kitchen.” John binned some used napkins.

The detective chuckled and John pulled him into a hug. “Do you want to settle?”

“God, yes.”

“Take your clothes off, then.”

Sherlock stripped out of the dark trousers and blue shirt, tossing them aside. John changed into pajamas and pulled the telly up on the shelf. Sherlock threw some kindling into the fireplace and got a little fire going and both men sank to the sofa with sighs of relief. Sherlock snuggled into John’s chest while the doctor flipped channels, dragging Mrs. Hudson’s blanket over both of them. To John’s delight, a Bond film was on. He remembered what he’d thought when him and Lestrade were looking for Sherlock in The Broads all those weeks ago. He closed his eyes, remembering how badly that day could have gone. How he would be sitting in this flat by himself in the cold and the dark, certainly not surrounded by gifts and warm firelight, his much loved sub and husband at his side.

Sherlock made acerbic comments about the absurdity of the film and John stroked fingers through his dark hair with a smile on his face.

It was good to be home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much to everyone for your kinds words and encouragement and kudos. This fic might not have happened without you. When I set out to write this fic, my main goal was to just post something fluffy and sexy and novel length that I hoped people would enjoy reading. It’s been a fun 6 months and I’ll miss posting a chapter every week! I sincerely hope you’ve enjoyed this story. I might eventually post some one shots in this universe if anyone’s interested in more. Let me know! :) Thanks again!
> 
> Edit: You guys are awesome! I will very likely post some one shots in this AU at some point.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments/kudos are forever appreciated :D


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